To all outward appearances, Jim Blawcyzk and Smoky McCue were merely another two of the many grubline riding cowboys wandering across Texas from ranch to ranch as they rode steadily northward. Since Texas Rangers wore no uniforms there was nothing about their clothing or equipment to distinguish them from ordinary cowpunchers. However, while most Rangers didn’t carry badges, Jim and Smoky had snugged in their shirt pockets silver star on silver circle badges, which they’d hand carved from Mexican ten peso coins. That insignia of Ranger authority was slowly becoming more widespread among the men who carried the law to the far reaches of the Lone Star State. The two lawmen would keep those badges out of sight until necessary.
While they had been riding partners for several years and were the best of friends, the two men couldn’t have been more opposite in personality and appearance. Jim was tall and lanky, standing a shade over six feet tall without his boots and wide-brimmed hat, and fair, with a thatch of thick, unruly blonde hair under the tan Stetson that shaded his clear blue eyes. His face, while still retaining somewhat of a youthful appearance, had been weathered by years of exposure to the Texas sun and wind, making him appear older than his age of thirty-two. He favored brightly colored shirts and bandannas, which often led to his fellow Rangers kidding him that with those bright clothes he made a good target for outlaw bullets. A light brown cowhide vest and scuffed boots completed his outfit. There were no spurs attached to those boots, as Jim refused to ever put steel to a horse’s flanks. Jim was left handed, so his heavy Colt Peacemaker, a revolver still fairly rare in Texas, hung at his left hip, while a Bowie knife was snugged in a sheath on his belt. Jim was reluctant to use that Colt and the Winchester riding in his saddle scabbard unless forced. Nevertheless, he was proficient in their use, and deadly accurate with his aim. While most Rangers were single, Jim was happily married and completely devoted to his wife and son. He was descended from the original group of Polish immigrants that had settled in the town of Bandera in the mid-1850’s, which accounted for his somewhat unusual surname. A devout Catholic, Jim attended Sunday Mass whenever possible, and never drank, smoked, nor cursed. His quiet demeanor had fooled many a lawbreaker into underestimating him until it was too late. However, Jim did enjoy a good game of poker, which afforded him a much needed diversion while on the trail. He rode a big-boned, ill-tempered palomino paint gelding named Sam, a horse which only Jim could handle. Constant brushing kept Sam’s yellow and white splotched coat shining like burnished gold.
Smoky McCue on the other hand was slightly shorter than average, but with a tough, wiry build, standing about five foot eight or nine in his boots. A year younger than Jim, Smoky had dark gray eyes, a pencil thin mustache, and black hair which had turned prematurely white at the tips, giving the illusion of a puff of smoke whenever he removed his battered black Stetson. It was this hair which had earned Smoky his nickname. His given name was unknown, since he had never revealed it to anyone, not even to Captain Trumbull or Jim. He preferred dark clothing, usually dressing in dark brown or black shirts, the only colorful item he wore a bright red bandanna draped loosely around his neck. His vest was of black leather, with a sack of tobacco and leaf of cigarette papers ever present in its left breast pocket. Even the gunbelt and holsters which carried his Colts and knife were of tooled black leather. Smoky was one of very few men who actually wore two sixguns, and he was equally proficient firing those pistols with either hand. Where Jim could be quiet to the point of being reserved, Smoky was loud and outgoing, always looking for a conversation or an argument. Unlike his partner, the smoke-haired McCue loved nothing so much as to spend an evening in the saloons when in town, drinking and gambling, preferably in the company of an attractive young saloon lady. Smoky also was constantly rolling and lighting quirlies, so he was rarely without a cigarette in his mouth. His family had been in Texas for generations, with several of his ancestors having taken part in the fight for Texas independence. Smoky’s steeldust gelding Soot complemented his rider perfectly, the horse’s charcoal gray coat and steady temper well-suited for a Ranger mount.
Despite their differences, Jim and Smoky had formed an instant bond when they’d first been assigned to the same Ranger company. Each had saved the other’s life on more than one occasion as they and their fellow Rangers battled the renegades and outlaws swarming over the vast reaches and rugged land of the Lone Star State. Even when Jim had risen to the rank of Lieutenant, while McCue had only been promoted to Corporal, they rode together on their assignments whenever possible. Recognizing the pair’s invaluable contributions to the Rangers, Captain Trumbull had eventually taken them from the company in which they rode and handed his toughest missions to them. Working on their own, Blawcyzk and McCue were able to ferret out lawbreakers who otherwise would have ridden away at the mere hint of a Ranger troop in the area.
By the time several days and nearly two hundred miles had passed, Jim and Smoky looked even more like down on their luck drifting cow-pokes. Neither had shaved since leaving Austin, so their jaws wore thick coats of stubbled whiskers. Their clothing and horses were coated with the dust of those long miles. Both men and mounts had thinned down from the hard run toward the Texas Panhandle.
It was about two hours before sundown when Jim reined Sam to a halt on the banks of a shallow, clear stream.
“What’re you stopping for, Jim?” Smoky demanded as he pulled Soot to a halt alongside his partner.
“I figured we’d give the horses a breather for a few minutes,” Jim answered as he lifted his canteen from the saddlehorn and dismounted. His paint immediately dropped his nose to the creek and began sucking up water. Smoky’s steeldust followed suit, thirstily taking in the cool liquid as his rider dismounted.
“What for?” Smoky questioned, as he pulled his cigarette papers and sack of tobacco from his vest pocket. “We’ll be scoutin’ out a place to camp pretty soon anyway. We could have just kept on ridin’ until we put up for the night.”
“No,” Jim explained as he hunkered alongside the stream to fill his canteen. “I figure if we keep pushin’ for another few hours we can make Swanson’s trading post well before ten o’clock. There’ll be enough of a moon after dusk to see the trail by, that is unless you’re too tuckered out to keep going for that long.”
“You know I can ride as long and as hard as you can, Lieutenant,” Smoky indignantly replied. “We’ll keep on until we reach Swanson’s place.” He dropped to his belly to take a long drink from the creek. “Boy, that does taste good,” he stated in satisfaction as he finished.
“I knew you’d agree,” Jim chuckled, “Especially since old Jack Swan-son always has a big pot of beef stew simmering on the stove and whiskey behind the bar.”
“Swanson’s grub might taste awful, but it’s still a welcome change from your bacon and beans, that’s for dang certain,” Smoky answered as he came to his feet and began to roll a quirly.
“I’ll go along with you there, Smoke,” Jim agreed. “Even I’m tired of the taste of my chuck at this point. And Swanson’s grub doesn’t taste all that bad since he started letting his wife do the cookin’. Besides, the horses will get a good graining there, which they can sure use. And we can pick up some supplies.”
Smoky studied the sky critically as he took a drag on his cigarette.
“Jim, I don’t mean to differ with you, but those clouds to the west look like they’ll cover the moon well before we reach Swanson’s,” he pointed out.
“Those clouds aren’t rollin’ in that fast,” Jim replied. “We’ll take our chances, unless you’ve got any real objections.”
“Not as long as you don’t plan on bunking down in one of those flea-bitten cots Swanson has the nerve to call beds,” Smoky retorted as he dug a lucifer from his vest pocket, thumbed it to life, and touched it to the end of his cigarette.
“There’s not a chance of that,” Jim laughed. “The first and only time I tried gettin’ some shut-eye in that bunkhouse of Swanson’s I lost more blood to those critters than I would have if I’d taken a bellyfull of buckshot from both barrels of a shotgun at close range. No, we’ll just have the horses fed, buy those supplies, eat and have a couple of drinks, then bed down out back with Sam and Soot.”
“Now you’re making sense,” Smoky said as he took a long pull on his cigarette. “And I wonder if Swanson still has those three good lookin’ daughters of his working around the place … not that I’m forgetting that real pretty Kiowa wife he’s got either.”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to those girls,” Jim knowingly grinned. “Well, we won’t find out about them just hanging around here all night.”
“Try not to use the word ‘hanging’, Jim,” Smoky gulped, reaching up to his neck to rub a faint scar still barely visible there, the result of a south Texas lynch mob’s mistakenly identifying him as the killer of a woman some time back. Jim’s timely arrival had saved McCue from dangling at the end of that mob’s rope.
“Sorry, pard,” Jim apologized. “I reckon these horses have had enough of a rest. Let’s get movin’.” He climbed back into the saddle and rehung his canteen. Smoky pulled himself onto Soot’s back and flipped the butt of his cigarette into the creek.
“Let’s go, Sam,” Jim urged his paint, nudging him in the ribs. After letting the horses jog easily for a half mile, the Rangers once again urged their mounts into a ground-covering lope.