With not much to do until the stage arrived the next afternoon, Jim slept late, then headed to the livery stable where he groomed his horse. His examination of the bank’s books had provided no new information, so after returning them to Leah Collins, he enjoyed a hearty breakfast at the Bon Ton, then had a shave and haircut followed by a leisurely bath at a barber shop owned by a Mexican named Santos. After stopping by Doctor Sweeney’s, where he found Steve Masters still feverish and unconscious, but also assured by the physician that Sheriff Crowe had spent a peaceful night and would be able to have a short visit from the Ranger later that day, he decided to take the opportunity to finally investigate Attorney Brett Sloane’s office. “Reckon I should have done this sooner,” Jim mused, as he climbed the stairs to the second floor office and unlocked the door, “but I was kinda occupied with other matters. ‘Sides, any evidence that might’ve been in here’s probably long since disappeared.”
The cluttered office’s sparse furnishings were coated with a thick layer of dust. Evidently, no one had entered the room since shortly after Sloane’s body had been found.
“Now let’s see,” Jim said half-aloud, as he glanced around the office. His gaze settled briefly on the thick rough-hewn log which ran the width of the room, the ceiling rafter from which Brett Sloane had been hung. Jim then went to a large oak desk, its top scarred with deep gouges and marred with cigar burns, and opened the top drawer, finding little of interest. He went through the rest of the desk’s drawers methodically, again finding nothing that would hint of the reason for the lawyer’s demise.
After examining the contents of the desk, Jim next went through a file cabinet, locating a few files which contained documents relating to John and Leah
Collins, Mason and Rebecca Jeffers, and Thor Lundgren. He studied these carefully, making several notes. He was about to replace the files and close the cabinet when he spotted a thin manila folder stuck between the back of the cabinet and the drawer. “Huh!” he exclaimed, as he opened the folder to find papers in the name of Kurt Thornberg, the missing geologist. “Mebbe there’ll be somethin’ in here that’ll help me,” the Ranger mused. “Reckon I’ll take these along and look ‘em over tonight.” He carefully replaced the other files, then slid the drawer shut.
As Jim slid the Thornberg folder inside his shirt, his gaze once again settled on the ceiling beam. “Somethin’s not quite right here,” he muttered, “Sure wish I could put my finger on it.” He stared thoughtfully at the rough wood for a few moments, then slid a hickory side chair from a corner of the office and placed it directly under the beam.
Jim climbed onto the chair to enable himself to see the top of the rafter. He looked carefully over the entire log, running his fingers slowly over its surface. “Got it,” he suddenly exclaimed. “If Brett Sloane was hung like the sheriff claims, there should be some rope marks on this wood. There ain’t any sign of a rope being wrapped around this beam, not even any fibers.” His examination had shown no rope marks, no lighter rubs on the dark, smoke-stained wood to indicate where a man had struggled in his death throes, trying futilely to draw in breath as he slowly strangled. “Even if Sloane’s neck was broke and he didn’t struggle,” Jim thought, “there’d still be some pressure marks from the weight of his body. Appears to me Brett Sloane wasn’t killed by hangin’.at least not in this room. Which means someone is lyin’ about what really happened to him. Now all I’ve got to do is figure out who and why.”
After leaving the attorney’s office and returning to his room to place the Thornberg file in his saddlebags for safekeeping, Jim tracked down Rick Lewis at the Bon Ton Café, where the deputy was enjoying a mid-day meal of beefsteak and fried potatoes.
“Howdy, Jim,” Lewis greeted the Ranger, waving him over to his table as he downed a forkful of beef. “I’d usually have dinner at home with Annette and my kids, since school’s out,” he explained, “but with John still laid up, I can’t leave the office for too long. You hungry?”
“Always,” Jim grinned, as Maisie hurried over with a mug of steaming black coffee in her hand.
“What’ll you have, Lieutenant?” she asked.
“Same as the deputy here, only double the steak, and add some of that apple crisp,” Jim requested. “And make sure the steak’s well done, even burnt, and the spuds are crispy and brown.”
“Comin’ right up,” the waitress smiled. As she headed behind the counter, Jim lowered his voice and asked Lewis, “Rick, got a question for you.”
“Sure,” Lewis answered. “What is it?”
“Who discovered Brett Sloane’s body?”
“That’s an easy question. It was Thor Lundgren.”
“The storekeeper?”
“Yep. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just tryin’ to piece everythin’ together,” Jim noncommittally replied. “So Lundgren must’ve reported the killin’.”
“That’s right,” Lewis agreed, “And no one got to the office before the sheriff did. Lundgren was smart enough to keep his mouth shut until he told my boss about findin’ Sloane hangin’ in his office.”
“Did you also see Sloane’s body before it was removed?”
Lewis shook his head. “Uh-uh. I was out with a posse at the Triple A, tryin’ to track down some rustled cows that day. Trailed those beefs all the way to the Rio Grande, but the rustlers beat us across and into Mexico. It was four days after Sloane’s body was found that me and the boys got back. By that time Sloane had already been planted. You got some particular idea you’re kickin’ around, Ranger? Mebbe I can help.”
“Not really,” Jim replied, “Just tryin’ to make sense of all this. I know it doesn’t look like it on the surface, but there’s got to be some connection between all of these killin’s.”
“Seems likely,” Lewis agreed, “But what?”
“Answer that question and you’ll have your killer,” Jim grinned. “Meanwhile, what time do you expect the stage?”
“Should be anytime after two, if it hasn’t run into trouble,” Lewis answered. “And speakin’ of time, I’d better get back to my rounds. I’ll meet you when the stage comes in.”
“See you then, Rick,” Jim answered, as Lewis pushed himself away from the table.
Jim lingered over his dessert and several cups of coffee before heading over to the hotel. With Sanderson not yet large enough to support a stage depot and staff, the Butterfield coach would make its stop at the Terrell House. Choosing a spot on the boardwalk where the midday sun would soothe his still aching body, Jim tipped a chair against the hotel wall, stretched out his legs, and tilted his Stetson over his eyes. While he appeared to be dozing, actually he was studying the comings and goings of the citizens of the town. He occupied nearly two hours that way until the hoofbeats of rapidly approaching horses and the crack of a driver’s whip as he galloped his team into town announced the arrival of the stage from Fort Stockton. Jim came to his feet as Rick Lewis strode up.
“That the same driver?” Jim questioned.
“Yeah, that’s Pat Sullivan,” Lewis confirmed, as the stage jolted to a stop in a swirl of dust. “Jack’s the shotgun guard as usual too. Hey Sully!” he called as the driver climbed down from his perch. “Soon’s you get settled, I’ve got a Texas Ranger here needs to ask you a coupla’ questions.”
“I can see that,” the bearded driver replied, spitting a thick stream of tobacco juice into the dust as he glanced at Blawcyzk’s badge. “Soon’s I get the passengers off and the baggage unloaded, I’ll be right with you.”
The first person to alight from the mud-streaked yellow Concord was a middle-aged woman in a dark gray traveling outfit. As the next passenger exited, Blawcyzk exclaimed in recognition, “Andre! Andre Miller! What in blue blazes brings you to this corner of Texas?”
The startled Miller looked up, then as he recognized the Ranger shouted back, “Lieutenant Blawcyzk! You’re the last person I expected to see down here.” Andre Miller was a tall, powerfully built black man, a former slave who had worked his way to a chief maintenance supervisor’s position with the Texas Pacific Railroad. He and Blawcyzk had first met when a prominent state senator and his hirelings had tried to ruin the rail line. Blawcyzk had been assigned to track down the culprits, and Miller had been wounded fighting off an ambush on his track crew. As Miller stepped into the road, another man left the confines of the stage to join him. Miller’s companion was slightly shorter than average, with thick gray hair and a small mustache. His dark shoe-button eyes seemed to fairly sparkle with energy.
“Lieutenant, let me introduce you to Paul Doherty. He’s the T-P’s chief surveyor. Paul, this is Lieutenant Blawcyzk of the Texas Rangers.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” Doherty said, as he took Jim’s hand in a firm grip.
“Same here,” Jim replied, “And Andre, I think we’ve known each other long enough now you can call me Jim. Same goes for you, Paul. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Miller replied with a wide smile.
“That’s settled,” Jim grinned. “Now Andre, there’s only one reason you’d be down here with the railroad’s chief surveyor.”
“You’re right, Jim,” the railroader replied, “The T-P’s lookin’ into buildin’ a spur line to Sanderson. I’ve been promoted to assistant surveyor and right of way planner since the last time we ran into each other.”
“That’s great news. You certainly deserve it. But why’s the Texas Pacific lookin’ to build a line down here?” Jim questioned.
Rick Lewis walked over to the trio to break in on their conversation. “Jim, Sully and Jack are ready to talk with you now. They’re on a tight schedule.”
“Sure,” Jim answered, “Sorry. Forgot all about ‘em when I spotted Andre. Be right with them.” He continued to the railroaders, “Look, I need to talk with you, but I’ve got to ask the driver some questions. I’m sure you both want to clean up and rest a bit anyway. Why don’t we meet and have supper, then a drink or two at the saloon? Mebbe we can even play a couple hands of poker.”
“That sounds just fine,” Miller readily agreed.
“Then we’re set. The Bon Ton Café’s right across the street from here. I’ll meet you around seven.”
“We’ll see you then,” Miller replied, as he picked up his warbag from the boardwalk.
“I’m sorry if I kept you waitin’, men,” Jim apologized as he joined Lewis, Sullivan the driver, and Spallone the shotgun guard. “I won’t take up a lot of your time.”
“Good, because we’ve got to get these horses fed and watered, let ‘em rest a bit, then be on our way,” the driver retorted.
“Only got one or two questions for you,” Jim assured him. “A woman took your stage out of town a few weeks back, the same woman who handed another Ranger a note that led him into a frame-up.”
“Yeah. Bess Morton, one of the gals from the Blue Tail Fly,” Spallone recollected, “A real looker, that one.”
“That’s the lady,” Jim agreed. “I need to know where she left the stage, and where she was headed after that if she mentioned it.”
“Dunno as I’d call Bess a lady,” Sullivan harshly laughed, letting loose another gob of tobacco. “But I can tell you she got off in Fort Stockton.”
“She plan on stayin’ there?”
“Nope, Lieutenant. Bess said she was gonna catch the stage to El Paso, then go on to Santa Fe. You got any other questions?”
“No. That’s all. And thanks for your help.”
“Anytime,” Sullivan replied, “Always glad to help the Rangers. Good luck.”
“Adios,” Jim answered.
As Jim and Lewis headed back to the sheriff’s office, Jim harshly questioned the deputy.
“Rick, did you know the Texas Pacific is thinkin’ of buildin’ a line to Sanderson?”
“Sure, Jim,” Lewis replied.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I didn’t think it was that important. Everyone knows about it. It’s not like it’s some big secret.”
“Not that important?” Jim echoed. “If someone knew where the railroad was plannin’ to lay their tracks, and bought the land up cheap before anyone else knew, he’d stand to make a fortune. And that’s a powerful motive for murder.”
“But Jim, everyone in town’s known all along the T-P wants to build down this way,” Lewis protested. “There’d be no reason for someone to commit murder to get his hands on the right of way. First of all, no one yet knows where that’ll be. And if anyone tried to get control of wherever the railroad decided to build, everyone’d be real suspicious about that. No, I don’t think the railroad comin’s got anythin’ to do with these killin’s.”
“Mebbe you’re right,” Jim conceded, “but it’s sure somethin’ to think about. And it could be a vital piece of evidence. I sure wish you hadn’t kept it from me.”
Uncomfortable under the Ranger’s questioning, Lewis attempted to change the subject. “Don’t look like you’ll have much luck tryin’ to track down Bess Morton,” he noted.
“Mebbe, mebbe not,” Blawcyzk answered. “I’ll get a letter to Austin off on the next stage. She’s probably in Santa Fe by now, but just in case she decided to stay in El Paso I’ll ask Captain Trumbull to have one of our men search for her. It’s a long shot for sure, but I can’t chance leavin’ any stone unturned.”
They had arrived at the stairs to the office. “What’re you gonna do for the rest of the afternoon?” Lewis asked.
“Gonna head over to Doc Sweeney’s and stay with Steve for awhile. Dunno how much longer he’s gonna hang on. And hopefully I’ll be able to talk with your boss for a few minutes. You want to come along?”
“I’d like to,” the deputy replied, “But I’ve got a whole pile of reports that are stacked on my desk. I’d better get at ‘em. I’ll catch up to you later.”
“All right. Later, Rick,” Jim replied, as Lewis paused at the office door. “If you get a few minutes, meet me for supper. We can palaver awhile.”
“Not tonight,” Lewis explained, clearly looking for a reason to get shut of Blawcyzk. “I shot a mule deer the other day, so Annette’s makin’ her famous venison stew. Besides, with John laid up, I’ve hardly seen my kids the past few days. Naomi and Kim’ll be forgettin’ what I look like.”
“I know what you mean,” Jim sympathized, “I miss Julia and my boy Charlie somethin’ fierce when I’m on the trail…which is most of the time. Dunno what I ever did to deserve ‘em. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
“Fair enough,” Lewis agreed, as he opened the door and stepped into his office.
A few minutes later, Jim was at Sheriff John Crowe’s bedside. The local lawman was propped up in bed, with a clean white bandage taped to his upper chest. He still looked wan and drawn, but his eyes were clear, with no sign of fever.
“Howdy, Sheriff. Good to see you’re comin’ along,” Jim greeted Crowe. “How you feelin’?”
“Not bad for a man who took a slug in his chest, Jim. In fact, I’d sure like to get outta this bed, but the doc says I can’t get even think about that for a couple more weeks.” Crowe ruefully grinned as he took a long drag on his cigarette. “Sorry about your young pardner, though. I understand he’s not gonna make it. That’s a real shame.”
“Thanks,” Jim answered. “He’s still alive, and I’ve been prayin’ for him. There’s still hope, although not much, I’ll admit. John, the doc tells me I can’t take too much time with you yet. I’ve got a few questions I need to ask you.”
“Sure,” Crowe readily agreed, “Go ahead.”
“First, Rick told me Thor Lundgren found the lawyer’s body, then went straight to you to report it.”
“That’s right,” Crowe confirmed.
“And Sloane was definitely hung in his office?”
“That’s correct. Thor cut the body down before he came to me. Said he couldn’t stand seein’ Sloane hangin’ from that rafter.”
“So you didn’t actually see Sloane’s body danglin’ from the end of a rope?”
“No,” Crowe admitted, taking another drag on his quirly. “Why’re you askin’?”
“Because I went through Sloane’s office today, and there were no signs of a rope bein’ tied to the rafter,” Jim explained. “There should’ve been some fibers stuck in that wood, or some rub marks.”
“I can explain that,” Crowe replied, “Sloane’s killer didn’t use a rope. He’d pulled Sloane’s shirt offa him and used that to kill him. My guess is whoever
killed the lawyer strangled him first, then hung the body to try and make Sloane’s death look like a suicide. The shirt wouldn’t have left sign like a rope might. And the piece of shirt Thor left when he cut Sloane down was still wrapped around that beam when I got to the office. I cut it off later.”
“Reckon that makes sense,” Jim conceded. “Don’t matter that much anyway, since we already know Sloane was murdered.”
Doctor Sweeney poked his head in the door.
“Ranger, I can only let you have a few more minutes,” he warned.
“Almost done,” Jim replied. “John, just one more question. How long has it been common knowledge that the railroad’s comin’ to town?”
“Several months at least,” Crowe replied. “You think that’s got somethin’ to do with all these killin’s?”
“It’d be a logical thought,” Jim replied, “But with everyone knowin’ about it that takes away the most likely explanation, that somebody was attemptin’ to make a killin’, if you’ll pardon the expression, by tryin’ to buy up land the T-P might want quiet-like. I’d still bet a hat there’s some connection, though.”
“Likely you’re right,” Crowe agreed, “Now all we’ve got to do is figure out what it is.”
“And you’ve also got to finish recoverin’,” Jim grinned, as he pushed himself up from his chair. “You just keep takin’ it easy for a while, and let me puzzle this out.”
“Sure thing,” Crowe chuckled. “Least in here no one’ll be takin’ aim at my back, which they’re likely to be doin’ at yours, Ranger. You be careful.”
“Count on it. Adios, John.”
“Thanks, Jim. If you need me, I’m not goin’ anywhere. G’night.”
“Jim, that was the best supper I’ve had since we left Abilene,” Paul Doherty told Blawcyzk as they tarried over last cups of coffee at the Bon Ton. “Never would’ve guessed I’d find such a delicious meal in a backwater town like this.”
“One thing I’ve learned traipsin’ all over Texas,” Blawcyzk smiled, “Is you never know when or where a good feedin’ house’ll turn up. And speakin’ of backwaters,” he continued, “Either of you gents willin’ to tell me why the Texas Pacific is considerin’ a line down this way?”
“We don’t rightly know ourselves,” Miller answered. “We got word about three or four months back that we’d be surveyin’ a possible route to Sanderson.
The plans must be comin’ along, because a couple of weeks ago we were told to head down here and look for a decent route for a right of way.”
“But the railroad sure ain’t gonna go to all the expense of buildin’ a spur through miles of badlands and mountains without a good reason,” Jim protested.
“That’s right,” Doherty agreed.
“You know the Texas Pacific, Jim,” Miller laughed. “They’ve got to be virtually certain they’ll make money before they even consider a new line. Sure, there’s got to be a good profit in it for the railroad if we can find a decent route down here. But the powers that be haven’t told us how they expect to make that profit.”
“OK, then how about the route itself? You got anythin’ particular in mind yet?”
“Nothing except some general sketches on a topographic map,” Doherty answered.
“How about takin’ options on any land?”
“We’re nowhere near there yet,” Miller responded. “Haven’t even started considering that.”
“So no one’d have any reason to try and buy up land,” Jim mused.
“Not right yet,” Doherty confirmed. “Why?”
“’Cause there’ve been several murders in the vicinity, and I’m tryin’ to figure out what’s the connection between ‘em,” Jim explained, “but so far I’m comin’ up blank.”
“Well, if anyone can figure it out, you can,” Miller chuckled, “Meanwhile, I believe you mentioned something about drinks and a poker game?”
“Right you are,” Jim grinned, “Let’s pay our tab and get on over to the Blue Tail Fly.”
The Blue Tail Fly was the largest saloon in Sanderson, located diagonally across the street from the Terrell House. Josh Hemingway, the owner and chief bartender, called a greeting to Blawcyzk as the Ranger entered the barroom, trailed by the two railroaders.
“You gonna drink anythin’ stronger than sarsaparilla this time, Lieutenant?” he grinned.
“Only if you’ve come up with more information for me about the night Bess handed that note to Steve Masters,” Jim retorted. “Josh, I’d like you to meet a couple friends of mine, Andre Miller and Paul Doherty of the Texas Pacific Railroad.”
“Welcome to the Blue Tail Fly,” Hemingway cordially smiled, shaking both men’s hands and making no objection to a black man being in his establishment, “I hope you’ve got stronger taste in drink than the lieutenant does.”
“I sure do,” Miller replied. “I’ll have a beer.”
“And rye for me,” Doherty added.
“Comin’ right up,” Hemingway answered. As the saloonkeeper filled the railroaders’ glasses, Doherty turned a curious eye on Blawcyzk. “Sarsaparilla, Jim?” he asked.
“That’s right, Paul.”
“Lemme explain that for you, Jim,” Miller broke in. “Y’see Paul, our Ranger friend here doesn’t drink red-eye, not even beer. Doesn’t smoke either,” he added, as he rolled a quirly and laughed, “But he does enjoy a good game of poker, and he’s never backed off from a fight.”
“Speakin’ of fights.” Jim became alert as he glanced up at the back bar mirror to see several Rafter Q cowhands enter the saloon. “We might be in for one. I’ve got a score to settle with these boys.” As Miller and Doherty turned to look at the objects of the Ranger’s attention, Jasper Wylie, the Rafter Q’s new foreman, stalked up to the bar, looked Miller up and down, and loudly stated, “Josh, since when do you allow stinkin’ niggers in this saloon?”
“I’ll handle this, Andre,” Jim quietly told the railroad man, seeing Miller tensing, his fists tightening. “That way it’ll be all nice and legal, and you’ll stay outta trouble.” His eyes now glittering chips of blue ice, the Ranger turned to Wylie and softly said, “Mister, that’s a real ugly word you just called my friend. Now, are you gonna apologize to Mr. Miller here nice and polite-like, or do I have to shove that word back down your lousy throat?”
“I might add you don’t wanna insult these gentlemen,” Hemingway added from behind the bar, “They’re from the Texas Pacific Railroad, and if they agree Sanderson should have a line run down here, it’ll mean a lot of money to this town, not to mention make it a lot easier for your boss to ship his cattle. And I’ve made them welcome in the Blue Tail Fly.”
“I’m not gonna apologize to no stinkin’ colored boy,” Wylie sneered, “Don’t matter to me who he works for. And I’m sure gonna enjoy tearin’ you limb from limb, Ranger. Guess you didn’t learn your lesson the other day.” Wylie’s fist shot out, missing Blawcyzk’s chin as Jim ducked and jerked his head sideways, then sank his fist deep into Wylie’s belly. The Rafter Q foreman grunted in agony as he folded over Jim’s fist. Jim’s following punch took Wylie square on the point of his chin, straightening him up. The Ranger’s next blow
knocked Wylie stumbling backwards into a card table. The table splintered under Wylie’s weight, sending him sprawling to the floor.
Jim arched in pain as another of the Rafter Q cowboys sent a vicious punch into his back, just over his kidney. A third man buried his fist in Jim’s gut, jack-knifing him. As the cowboy attempted to kick the Ranger in his jaw, Andre Miller wrapped his arms around the waddy, tackling him and slamming him against the bar. All air driven from his lungs, the cowboy sagged, and Miller’s following punch broke his jaw. The Rafter Q puncher uttered a muffled scream, then collapsed unmoving to the sawdust.
As Wylie staggered to his feet, another Rafter Q hand drove a knee into Miller’s groin. Miller groaned in agony, but shook off the pain to grab his assailant by his shirtfront and belt, lift him high over his head, and toss him over the bar. Bottles shattered as the cowboy smashed into the back bar shelves. He landed face-down amidst a shower of glass shards and spilled liquor, tried futilely to push himself up, then collapsed.
The three Rafter Q hands still remaining in the fight along with Jasper Wylie had backed Jim into a corner, but were quickly finding out they had more than met their match in the infuriated Ranger. Paul Doherty had leapt into the fray and pummeled one of the men in the ribs until, with an audible crack, two ribs broke under the surveyor’s assault. Coming to Blawcyzk’s aid, Miller grabbed one of the cowboys and spun him around. His huge fist connected solidly with the man’s nose, flattening it and bringing forth a fountain of blood. As the cowboy clamped his hands to his nose and screeched in agony, Miller muttered disgustedly, “Oh, shut up,” and slammed his fist into the man’s ear. The waddy crumpled silently to the floor.
Jim, meanwhile, had taken one of his assailants out of the fight with two quick rights to the face. Then Jasper Wylie caught the Ranger on the side of his face with a brutal punch, twisting him completely around and slamming him face-first into a wall. Stunned, Jim shook his head to clear his vision as he spit out a mouthful of blood and several pieces of teeth. He whirled to meet Wylie’s rush, ducking under a punch that would have nearly ripped his head off and planting his left fist solidly into the foreman’s belly, smashing his right into Wylie’s ribs. As Wylie doubled over, Jim hooked a punch to his jaw, staggering him. Jim pummeled the bigger Wylie mercilessly, finally slamming a powerful right to Wylie’s chin. The blow spun Wylie around so that he smashed head first into the bar as he toppled. Wylie’s neck snapped and he crumpled, his head at an awkward angle.
Jim yanked his Colt from its holster. “Anyone else want a part of this?” he challenged, chest heaving and blood dripping from his chin.
“Reckon I speak for everyone here when I say it’s your play, Ranger,” one of the bystanders softly answered. “We’re not gonna interfere.”
Rick Lewis burst through the batwings, his Lightning rifle at the ready. His steady gaze settled on the Ranger.
“What the devil happened here, Jim?” he asked.
“Some Rafter Q hombres were spoilin’ for a fight, deputy,” Josh Hemingway answered before Blawcyzk could respond. “They bit off more’n they could chew.”
“I reckon they did,” Lewis dryly replied. “Lieutenant, you and your friends all right?”
“Seem to be in one piece,” Jim ruefully answered. “Can’t say the same for these Rafter Q boys, though. Wylie’s dead, and the rest of ‘em aren’t in much better shape.”
“You want ‘em jailed?”
“Nah. I think they’ve learned their lesson. Unless Andre or Paul wants to press charges.”
“I’m satisfied,” Miller grunted.
“Same here,” Doherty concurred.
“If that’s what you want,” Lewis shrugged. “All right, Cady. You and Moore take the rest of your pards and what’s left of Wylie and get outta here.”
“This ain’t the last of it, Ranger,” Al Cady threatened. “Mace’ll be sure and settle your hash. And Lewis, we’ll be wantin’ to press charges against those two hombres for fightin’.”
“I’ll be waitin’,” Jim promised.
Thinking quickly, Lewis snapped, “And you can’t press charges against two duly sworn county deputies, Cady. They were just enforcin’ the law by tryin’ to break up a fight. Reckon you can consider yourselves lucky you’re all not bein’ arrested for assaultin’ officers of the law. Now get outta here before I decide to run you in myself.”
“Reckon we’re licked for now, men,” Cady grumbled. “Let’s get outta here.” He and Jess Moore dragged Jasper Wylie’s body out of the saloon, the rest of their crew staggering out behind them.
“Josh, I reckon my friends can use another drink,” Jim said, as soon as the Rafter Q hands had departed. “And I sure can use another sarsaparilla. You gonna join us, Rick?”
“Reckon I have time for a beer,” the deputy replied.
“Have ‘em in a minute,” the saloonkeeper replied.
“Thanks for jumpin’ in and givin’ me a hand with those jaspers,” Jim gratefully told Miller and Doherty.
“No problem at all,” Miller replied, as he wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I couldn’t let a man call me that and get away with it.”
“I know,” Jim replied, “Just wanted to make sure no one could say you started that fight.”
“Most fun I’ve had in years,” Doherty chuckled as he gingerly felt the huge lump rising along his jaw.
“Here’s your drinks, on the house, and don’t worry about the damages,” Hemingway told them as he placed their glasses on the bar. “It was worth it just to see Mace Jeffers’ men get the comeuppance they’ve been needin’. And Jasper Wiley finally got what he deserved. He’s been throwin’ his weight around for too long.”
“No one deserves to die like that, no matter what he might’ve done,” Jim objected. Despite his chosen career as a Texas Ranger, he hated having to kill anyone, and usually got slightly sick to his stomach when forced to, even after all his years as a lawman. “I wasn’t tryin’ to kill Wylie. He just fell wrong and broke his neck.”
“Mebbe so, but Wylie was sure tryin’ to kill you,” Doherty noted, “So I’d say things turned out for the best.”
“Gotta agree with Paul,” Hemingway added. “And Jasper started that fight.”
“Don’t matter much anyway,” Jim morosely replied, wincing as he took a swallow of his soda pop. “It’ll just stir up more trouble with Mace Jeffers.”
“Jim, you all right?” Lewis questioned, as Blawcyzk grimaced again when he gulped down the rest of his drink.
“Wylie broke a couple of my teeth, and they’re diggin’ into my cheek,” the Ranger explained. “Reckon I need a dentist. You happen to have one in town?”
“As a matter of fact we do,” Lewis answered, “Young fella who set up practice about a year ago. You want to see him right now?”
“Guess I can wait until mornin’,” Blawcyzk replied. “Dunno about the rest of you, but I’m headin’ for bed. Rick, I’ll see you in the mornin’. Andre, Paul, I’m sure we’ll be runnin’ into each other. Now, I’m gonna say g’night.”