The sun was two hours above the eastern horizon when the men reached the site of the ambush. Four cowboys lay sprawled in various poses of death where they’d fallen to rustler bullets.
“We’re gonna take the time to bury these men,” Patrick needlessly ordered, his voice tight with emotion as he rolled one of the dead men onto his back. “Stace, we’re gonna get the hombres who did this to you, I promise.”
“And when we do we’ll make ‘em sorry they were ever born,” Ronny added. “Let’s get this done with so we can get back on their trail.”
Wes and Brad took the shovels from their saddles and began to dig the first shallow grave. Within an hour the four slain Rocking N hands were laid in their final resting places, crude wooden crosses shoved into the ground at the head of each grave.
“Lord, take these good men home to rest in peace with You,” Patrick intoned as he and the others stood with heads bowed and hats in hand. “And we ask Your guidance as we search for their killers. Amen.”
“Amen.” the rest of the group echoed.
Once they were back in their saddles Patrick turned to Blawcyzk.
“Lieutenant,” he requested, “I’d appreciate it if you Rangers would take the lead. I imagine you and your pardner are far better trackers than any of us.”
“That doesn’t hardly matter,” Jim responded as he leaned from his horse to study the obvious tracks left by the rustled herd. “A blind man could follow the trail these hombres left. I guess they figured they’d killed all of your men, and the missing cows wouldn’t be discovered for quite some time. They’re taking their time. Probably think that by the time anyone came after ‘em, they’d be long gone. We’re gonna prove ‘em wrong. But before we go any further, I want to make one thing absolutely clear. There’ll be no lynching of those rustlers once we catch up with them”
“I’ve got a rope just itchin’ to stretch those murderin’ cow thieves’ necks,” Ronny protested as he lifted his lariat from the saddle, “And there’s plenty of cottonwoods along the creek bottoms we can use for a gallows.”
“You heard what I said,” Jim snapped. “We’ll try to bring those men in alive for trial, if at all possible. I doubt they’ll submit to arrest, so that means we’ll have a fight on our hands, that’s for certain. But I still intend to take them to jail. And if anyone tries to lynch those hombres he’ll be the one facin’ a rope. Bet a hat on it. Is that understood?”
“I reckon it is,” Ronny grumbled. “But it still sticks in my craw.”
“I know,” Jim softly replied, “But lynchin’ those men would make us no better than they are. Now let’s get after ‘em.” He dug his bootheels into Sam’s ribs, sending the big paint trotting ahead. Once the horses had warmed up, Jim pushed Sam into a ground-covering lope, with Smoky and the Rocking N crew trailing close behind.
For better than an hour Jim and his companions kept up a brisk pace as they followed the trail of the stolen cattle, which led almost directly to the northeast. Finally, he pulled Sam to a halt alongside a shallow stream. Sam immediately dropped his nose to the clear water to drink, the other horses following suit.
“We’re gonna take ten minutes to rest the horses, men,” he announced, as he cocked his right leg comfortably across his saddle-horn.
“Seems to me we’re taking it too slow, and those renegades are gettin’ away from us,” Treloar protested.
“There’s no use in killin’ our cayuses,” Smoky pointed out, as he pulled tobacco and papers from his vest pocket and began to roll a quirly. “We do that, and those hombres will get away for sure.”
“The Rangers are right, Tom,” Ronny agreed. “We need these horses as ready to run as they can be.”
“I stopped for another reason,” Jim added, as he took a long pull on his canteen. “We’ve been gainin’ steadily on those rustlers. And I’m fairly certain they’ll do what most all cow thieves do. They’ll hole up pretty soon, if they haven’t done so already. They’ll stay hunkered down until after sundown, then start movin’ those cows again under the cover of dark. We sure don’t want to ride up on them without realizing it. That’d be the perfect way to get bullets through our bellies before we even knew what hit us.”
“Then what have you got in mind, Lieutenant?” Patrick questioned.
“You boys know this territory better than me or Smoke,” Jim answered. “Can any of you think of any place where those cows could be bunched up, bedded down, and held without too much trouble, and where they most likely wouldn’t be seen?”
“There’s lots of canyons and river breaks all through these parts,” Patrick answered. “One’s pretty much as likely as another.”
“Pat’s right,” Wes Adams agreed, as he bit a chaw off a plug of tobacco, “If we lose this trail, finding those rustlers’ll be harder than finding a needle in a haystack.”
“I think our best bet is to follow these tracks a while longer,” Ronny advised. “Once we get a little further on maybe we can narrow down where they’re headed.”
“I’ve gotta agree with you,” Brad Turley said, “We’ll know more if we can get a little closer to those rustlers.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Jim decided, “But if any of you comes up with an idea where these hombres are headed, let me know.”
“We’ll do just that,” Patrick promised.
“Fine.” Jim replied. “Smoky, once you and Tom finish your cigarettes, we’ll get movin’ again.”
“Finished,” Smoky answered, as he took one last drag on his quirly, then tossed the butt in the creek. He lifted his reins and sent Soot splashing across the stream.
Forty minutes later, Ronny reined his roan to a halt as he called out, “Hold it, Lieutenant. I think I’ve figured out where those rustlers are headed.” The others reined in their horses and gathered around him.
“Where do you think they’re goin’?” Jim asked.
“I could be wrong, but I’ve got a gut feelin’ they’re aimin’ for Dawson’s Draw,” Ronny responded. “How about it, Patrick? What do you think?”
“I think you may well be right,” Patrick agreed. “It’d make sense.”
“Where’s Dawson’s Draw?” Smoky asked.
“It’s another six miles north of here, more or less,” Ronny explained. “We’ve used it on occasion when we were drivin’ cows north. It’s got decent water and grass, so it’s real easy to keep a herd quiet in there. And it’s a pretty deep arroyo, so unless you headed straight in there you could ride right on by without ever knowin’ a herd of cattle was in that draw.”
“Is there more than one way in and out of there?” Jim questioned.
“There’s one main entrance,” Patrick answered, “and it’s fairly wide. There’s also a trail out of the other end of the draw, but it’s narrow and steep. It’s plenty rocky, too. There’s no way you can make a cow take that trail.”
“How about a man on horseback?” Jim pressed. “Could he make it up that trail?”
“He could, but it’d be mighty tough,” Patrick answered.
“I know what you’re driving at, Lieutenant,” Ronny broke in, “But we can’t take the time to send a couple men to guard that back trail. Daw-son’s Draw is about seven miles long, so it’d take too long to get anyone around it. Plus a rider headin’ down that trail’d make plenty of racket and kick up a lot of dust. That’d warn anyone in there he was comin’.”
“Then we’ll have to go straight in after them,” Jim observed. “How’s the cover in there once we get in? And it’s pretty certain they’ll have at least one man guarding the entrance. What are the chances we can spot him before he sees us?”
“I’d say we could get fairly close before they’d know we were in there” Patrick speculated. “There’s lots of brush and plenty of good-sized loose rocks. As far as a guard, the most likely spot he’d be is on an outcropping about a quarter mile into the draw. We’d have to take care of him before we could get any further.”
“What about waitin’ until after dark?” Adams questioned. “That way it’d be easier to sneak up and get the drop on them before they spotted us.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but it’d also be easier for them to get past us,” Jim explained, “and we’d have a hard time telling who was shootin’ at who if any gunplay started. One of us might end up pluggin’ one of his pards.”
“Jim’s right,” Smoky said, adding, “And don’t forget we’re still not absolutely certain those rustlers are holed up in Dawson’s Draw. If we wait until nightfall to go after them and they’re not there, we’ll have given them enough time to put so much distance between us that we’d probably never catch up to them”
“I guess you’re right at that,” Adams shrugged. “So how are we gonna pull this off?”
“We’ll follow these tracks to the draw,” Jim replied, “They should lead us right to our men if that’s where they headed. We’ll stop just outside the entrance and go in slow and easy in from there. If any of your broncs like to call out to other cayuses you’ll have to tie a bandanna over their noses to muzzle ‘em before we head in there so they don’t give us away.”
“What about the guard?” Treloar queried.
“I’m coming to that,” Jim answered. “Except for you, Tom, all of you know that draw better than me or Smoky. Any of you think he might be able to get in there without being spotted, see if there is a guard posted, and if there is take care of him without him crying out and warning his compadres?”
“I think I can manage that,” Ronny quickly spoke up. “There’s good cover along the base of the right wall all the way to that outcrop. I should be able to see anyone up there before he spots me. And I can get behind him by climbing a crevice that runs up the side of the draw.”
“Bueno”, Jim answered, “But I want that man alive if at all possible. And I don’t need to warn you if you’re not careful and you’re discovered, that guard’ll warn his pardners and we’ll have one heckuva fight on our hands.”
“We’re liable to have one anyway,” Patrick pointed out.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Jim agreed. “And that brings up something else. If any shooting starts, we need to make sure we stay between the herd and the draw’s mouth. Those cows are sure to start runnin’ at the first sound of gunfire, and we want to make sure they head for the back of the draw. That way, once they run up against that steep wall you fellas mentioned, they’ll bunch back on themselves and start millin’. That should stop any stampede before it gets started, which’ll save a lot of cattle, not to mention most likely our own hides. Any questions?”
“You seem to have everything covered, Lieutenant,” Brad Turley answered, “Except how to keep from gettin’ a slug through our guts.”
“If I said I knew the answer to that, I’d be lying,” Jim grimly chuckled. “Let’s get movin’. If we push, we can make the draw in little more than an hour. We’ll check our weapons just before we get there. C’mon Sam, let’s go.” He pushed the gelding into a long, mile eating gallop.
“They went in there all right,” Jim noted, as ninety minutes later he studied the dim trail which led into Dawson’s Draw. The rustlers had not even attempted to hide the tracks of the stolen cattle, so confident they were of the theft not being discovered until pursuit was too late.
“Let’s hope they’re still in the draw,” Patrick noted.
“They are,” Jim answered. “There’s no tracks comin’ out.”
“How many do you think we’re up against?” Treloar asked.
“There’s no way of telling,” Jim replied, “The horses’ hoofprints are mixed in with the cows’, so they’re pretty well obliterated.”
“You can be sure it’s a good-sized bunch though, to move this many cows this fast,” Smoky observed. “I’d say about a dozen or so.”
“We’re about to find out in any event,” Jim said. “Ronny, we’ll take cover in that grove of post oaks until you scout out the situation for us. How long will it take you to get to that outcropping and back? You’ll have to leave your horse here and go in on foot.”
“It shouldn’t take me more than a half hour,” Ronny confidently replied. “Less if they didn’t post a guard.”
“Fine. We’ll give you an hour, and if you haven’t come back by then we’ll come in after you.”
“That’s all very well, but if you hear any shots, come a-runnin’,” Ronny replied, as he pulled off his boots and spurs, Stetson, and gun-belt.
“You can count on it,” Patrick told him. “Be real careful, brother.”
“Well, if I don’t come back, you’ll have the Rocking N all for yourself,” Ronny ruefully laughed as he shoved his Colt into the waistband of his jeans. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of gettin’ my hide punctured. There. Guess I’ve taken off anything that might clink on the rocks and give me away. I’m ready.”
“Good luck,” Jim softly told him. “We’ll see you in a bit.”
“Count on it,” Ronny replied, as he disappeared into the mouth of the draw.
The wait for Ronny’s return seemed to take hours to his anxiously awaiting companions, whose nerves were already tight. While they waited they checked their guns, several times over. Not taking any chance of tipping off the rustlers, Jim wouldn’t allow any smoking lest a whiff of tobacco smoke drift to the renegades’ hideout. Not being able to puff on cigarettes only added to the tension for Smoky and the Rocking N hands. While the wait seemed endless, in fact it was only twenty minutes later when a dry twig sharply crackled. Several of the men jumped at the report, jerking around as their hands dropped to their guns, only to see Ronny grinning sheepishly as he emerged from the draw.
“You hombres a little jumpy?” he asked.
“That’s a good way to get yourself shot, kid,” Treloar grumbled.
“Sorry. I didn’t see that branch lying there,” Ronny apologized.
“Don’t worry about that,” Jim impatiently snapped. “What about the guard? Did they post one or not?”
“I’ve got good news, Lieutenant,” Ronny replied as he picked up his gunbelt, hat, boots and spurs and quickly pulled them on. “They didn’t. Guess they figured no one’d come after ‘em, at least not until they were long gone. So what’re we waitin’ for? Let’s go get ‘em.” He swung into the saddle of his strawberry roan.
“Fine,” Jim replied. “Remember, we’re gonna take those renegades alive if we possibly can. But if they put up a fight, once the shootin’ starts shoot straight and fast. Let’s mount up.”
“I hope they do put up a fight,” Patrick muttered. “I’d like nothing better than to put bullets through a few of those hombres’ guts for what they did to our men.”
“Unless I miss my guess, you’ll have that chance right quick,” Smoky answered. “You ready, Jim?”
“We’re ready,” Blawcyzk replied, as he eased Sam into the mouth of the draw.
More than six miles into the draw, Jim called a halt.
“I can smell wood smoke. We’re closing in on them,” he half-whispered. “Get your guns out. Remember, don’t fire unless I give the word … or they start shootin’ first.” Silently he slid the Winchester from its scabbard under his leg and laid it across the pommel of his saddle. Once the rest of the men had their weapons at the ready, Jim put Sam into a slow, almost silent walk.
Minutes later, the Rangers and Rocking N hands rounded a bend in the draw. Just beyond a shallow stream and a thin screen of brush were the rustlers, several of whom were sitting around a campfire. Beyond them was the stolen Rocking N herd, peacefully grazing the lush grass which grew almost to the back wall of the draw. Two of the rustlers were slowly circling the browsing cattle on horseback, keeping them bunched between the campfire and the draw’s steep sides and preventing any strays from wandering back down the arroyo.
Jim lifted his Winchester to his shoulder, then as he and his partners emerged from their cover he called out sharply, “Texas Rangers! You’re all under arrest! Keep your hands away from your guns, and raise them over your heads!”
For a moment, the rustlers were frozen, not believing their eyes at the sight of the lawmen. Then with a curse one of them grabbed for the pistol on his hip. He had the gun halfway leveled before Jim pulled the trigger of his rifle and put a bullet into the outlaw’s chest. The rustler spun from the bullet’s impact and fell face-first across the campfire.
The other cow thieves went for their guns, and as the Rangers and ranchmen returned fire two of them were dropped before they could pull triggers. Yet another went down when Treloar put a bullet through his throat. One of the rustlers on horseback pulled out his Winchester and fired a hasty shot, his bullet tearing a hole through Ronny’s left arm. The younger Norman’s return shot ripped into the renegade’s stomach, jackknifing him off his horse. At that the terrified cattle, already panicked from the sound of the first shots, frantically broke up canyon on a dead run, nearly one hundred steers racing as one. The other mounted rustler, seeing his partner dead and the cattle stampeding straight at him, instantly forgot about anything except escape, and spurred his horse frantically for the arroyo’s back trail. One of the men at the camp-fire dashed for his stomach-shot partner’s loose horse, grabbed its reins and leapt into the saddle, then recklessly spurred the mount into the midst of the madly charging cattle in a frenzied attempt to avoid capture or death. Somehow the horse miraculously kept its feet as it was swept along in the stampede.
The rest of the rustlers had dived for cover and were now firing desperately at the lawmen and ranchers. One’s bullet clipped a piece of hair from Soot’s forelock, then Smoky’s return shot took him in the head, the Ranger’s slug punching through the man’s left eyebrow and burying itself deep in his brain. Another died when Patrick slammed a bullet into his chest. When yet another rustler went down, screeching in agony and terror as Jim’s deadly shooting put two bullets through his belly, the two surviving cow thieves quickly threw down their guns and lifted their hands, pleading for mercy.
“Don’t… don’t shoot any more, please,” one of them stammered, as Jim and Smoky aimed their rifles at the captives’ chests.
“Just stand hitched,” Jim ordered, “One false move and you’ll get what your pardners got.” Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Brad Turley and Tom Treloar spurring their horses around the edge of the now milling herd, which had been prevented from running for miles by the canyon’s box walls.
“Tom! Brad! Get back here!” Jim shouted.
“We’re goin’ after those two hombres who got away!” Turley shouted back.
“Forget it!” Jim called after him. “They’ve got too much of a head start!”
Turley and Treloar ignored the Ranger, spurring their horses harder as they began to climb the narrow trail leading out of the draw. A rifle shot rang out and Treloar jerked in his saddle. A second shot sounded and Turley toppled from his horse. Instantly Treloar leapt off his horse, stumbling as he headed over to the downed cowboy and began dragging him off the trail. Treloar had taken four or five steps when the rifle cracked again and he was slammed to the ground by a bullet plowing into his back. As he fell, the sound of rapidly fading hoofbeats drifted across the draw.
“Sounds like that rifleman took off. I’ll go help those boys,” Adams volunteered, keeping his rifle at the ready as he swung into his saddle.
“Be careful, Wes,” Smoky hollered after him. “I imagine that gunman’s taken off by now, but there’s still a chance one of those hombres is holed up in those rocks ready to drill anyone who tries to climb that trail.”
“I’m ready for him if he tries anything,” Adams shouted back as he pushed his sorrel into a trot.
While Smoky kept his rifle leveled at the prisoners, Jim shoved his rifle back in its boot, lifting his Colt from its holster as he dismounted.
“What’re you plannin’ on doing with us, Ranger?” one of the rustlers stammered as Jim approached them, his pistol pointed straight at their stomachs.
“If it were up to my friends here, you’d be strung up right quick. Bet a hat on it,” Jim answered as he nodded at the Normans, who still sat their horses, Ronny clutching his bullet-punctured left arm, while blood dripped from a bullet graze across Patrick’s forehead. “But my pard and I are Texas Rangers, so we’ll haul you over to Tascola and put you in the jail there until you can stand trial for rustlin’ and murder.”
Without warning, the man closest to Jim charged him, screaming “I’m not gonna hang,” as he grabbed Jim’s gun wrist. At the same time, he drove a vicious punch into Jim’s gut, driving air from the Ranger’s lungs and doubling him up. When Jim staggered against him, the rustler struggled to wrest the heavy Peacemaker from Jim’s grasp. As the barrel of the gun was forced downward, Jim managed to thumb back its hammer and pull the trigger. The rustler yelped in surprise and pain, a shocked look of disbelief coming to his face as a .45 slug ripped into his belly and tore through his guts. He stood for a moment, then collapsed in a heap. Seeing his partner fall, the remaining cow thief whirled and took off at a dead run.
“Hold it right there, Mister!” Smoky shouted his order, “Or I’ll drop you in your tracks.” When the fleeing rustler’s only response was a shouted curse and an increase in his speed, Smoky took careful aim and put a bullet into the middle of his back. The rustler stumbled from the impact, staggered a few more steps, then pitched to his face. Smoky calmly shoved his Winchester back into its boot as he glanced over at his partner and softly asked, “Are you all right, Jim?”
“I’m fine,” Jim answered, rolling the rustler he’d just shot onto his back. The gutshot renegade gasped as he struggled for a few choked breaths, then violently shuddered, his body twitching for another moment before going completely slack.
“I reckon he was right,” Ronny dryly observed as he looked down at the dead man, his hands still clamped to the bullet hole in his middle, “He’s not gonna hang.”
“I guess that finishes this bunch, except for those two who got into the hills,” Patrick Norman stated with satisfaction as he climbed from his mustang and stood at Jim’s side to gaze at the rustler’s body.
“I reckon it does,” Jim bitterly agreed. “If this hombre hadn’t gone for my gun he’d still be alive. So would his pardner.”
“And they’d be facin’ a hang rope in a few weeks anyway,” Smoky aggrievedly pointed out. “Jim, I’m goin’ to check these hombres to make sure they’re all done for. Don’t forget those two we just finished were headed for the gallows anyway.” As McCue turned away he muttered under his breath so his partner couldn’t hear the oaths he directed Jim’s way. Smoky quite often got tired of his partner’s concern for bringing in alive the outlaws they faced. As far as he was concerned, the ranchers were right. These renegades had stolen cattle and killed several men in doing so. They’d gotten the lead justice they richly deserved.
“I know, but I still don’t like it,” Jim shrugged.
Jim glanced over at Ronny, who had dismounted and was leaning against his roan, still holding his arm. Blood was seeping between his fingers.
“You’d better let me patch up that arm,” Jim told the young rancher.
“It looks like Wes is on his way back with Tom and Brad,” Ronny replied as he looked up canyon. “And it seems like Brad’s still alive. I’ll be okay until you check them.”
Adams had gotten both men onto his horse and was now slowly returning, working his way through the cattle which were already settling back to their grazing. Turley was sitting slumped in the saddle, while Treloar was draped belly-down in front of him, over the horse’s withers.
“As long as you’re sure about that,” Jim hesitantly told the young rancher as he watched the approaching trio. Smoky had already checked the bodies of the rustlers and now hurried to help the wounded men.
Once they reached their waiting companions, Adams swiftly dismounted to help Smoky and lift Turley and Treloar from his horse. Blood was dripping steadily from Turley’s jaw, while crimson splotched both the front and back of Treloar’s faded gray shirt.
“They need some help quick,” Adams stated as he and Smoky laid Treloar on the ground, then helped Turley lie down, leaning him against a boulder. “Tom got drilled through the back. Brad took a bullet in his jaw.”
“I’ll get the medical kits, Jim,” Smoky said as Jim hunkered alongside the badly wounded cowpunchers, the rest of the men gathering around.
“How bad is it?” Patrick anxiously asked as Jim quickly examined the men.
“Treloar’s in bad shape, but he should pull through if I can get this bleedin’ stopped,” Jim explained. “That bullet scrape on his neck is just a scratch. The slug which took him in the back went clean through him, and it struck him up high enough so it missed the lungs, looks like.”
“What about Brad?”
“Not as bad as it could have been,” Jim answered as he examined the wound. “The bullet clipped his chin and glanced off the jawbone, then exited just below his ear. He’s lost some blood, and the bone’s busted. He’ll probably end up with a nasty scar, but he should be all right once he gets to a doc and gets that bone properly set. For now I’ll clean up the wound as best I can and immobilize his jawbone so he can’t do any further damage.”
“Is he gonna be able to talk?” Adams questioned.
“Not for quite some time, I’m afraid,” Jim somberly replied. “He’ll also be living on soup and coffee for a while, since he won’t be able to chew.”
“Then maybe the rest of us’ll finally be able to get a word in edgewise around the bunkhouse,” Adams grinned, relieved that his riding partner was not mortally hit. “Brad, it sure is gonna be peaceful without all your yammerin’,” he teased. Turley could only glare at his partner through pain-glazed eyes.
“Here you are, Jim.” Smoky handed his partner his canteen, a bottle of whiskey, and a small canvas sack which contained some rudimentary medical supplies.
Jim ripped off Treloar’s shirt, exposing the bullet hole in the cowboy’s back and the large, ragged exit wound high in his chest. Jim poured water from his canteen over both wounds, sprinkled tobacco into them, and doused them with whiskey. Treloar moaned in pain as the raw liquor hit his torn flesh. Taking two pieces of cloth from the medical kit, Jim stuffed them into the bullet holes. Treloar winced, then his eyes flickered open.
“Take it easy, Tom,” Jim ordered.
“What … what happened?” Treloar weakly murmured.
“You took a bullet in your back,” Jim explained. “It went clean through you, but it looks like it missed anything vital, so you should be all right unless blood poisoning sets in. I’ve cleaned the holes out real good, covered ‘em with tobacco and red-eye, then plugged ‘em, so I don’t think you’ll get an infection, at least not right off. But you’ll need to get to a doc as soon as you can and get proper treatment.”
Treloar chuckled softly despite his intense pain.
“What’s so funny, Tom?” Ronny questioned.
“I just thought this is a heckuva way to start a new job, by takin’ a slug in my back,” Treloar answered, then grunted and passed out.
“He dead, Jim?” Adams asked.
“Nope. Just lost consciousness again. It’s better for him that way,” Jim replied as he poured more whiskey over the holes in Treloar’s chest and back.
“I need someone’s shirt,” he ordered.
“Take mine.” Wes Adams shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to the Ranger. Jim tore it into strips and wrapped them tightly around Tre-loar’s chest and back.
“That should work,” Jim grunted as he tied the last strip in place. “Let me see what I can do for Brad.”
Efficiently, Jim washed out the bullet holes in Turley’s jaw, doused them with the whiskey, and coated them with salve. He then cut the left sleeve off Turley’s shirt, tore it into strips, and tied it around the wounded man’s head, holding the broken jawbone in place.
“That’s the best I can do for now,” Jim stated as he knotted the makeshift bandage in place. “Once you these men get back home they’ll need to see a doc as soon as possible.”
“We’ll make sure of that,” Patrick promised, then continued to his rider, “Wes, you’d better start ridin’ herd on those cows before they get any ideas about runnin’ again.”
“Hold it just a minute,” Jim ordered as he glanced at Adams. “Wes, it looks like you got hit too.” The waddy had tied his bloodstained bandanna high on his neck. He also held a blood-stained kerchief pressed to his left ribs.
“These are just scratches,” Adams protested. “The bleedin’s already stopped. I’m fine.”
“Then don’t waste any more time,” Patrick stated, “Get out with that herd before something spooks ‘em. It’s gonna be awful hard to hold ‘em with one man, but stay with ‘em until we can help.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Adams promised. “But what about those two hombres who got away? Aren’t we goin’ after them?”
“Those men have too big a jump on us,” Smoky patiently explained. “Not only that, but from the looks of that trail if we went after them they could just sit up there in the rocks and pick us off one by one. I’m afraid we don’t have a snowball’s chance in the Mojave of catchin’ up with them. But we didn’t do all that badly. We took care of most of this bunch, and you’ve got your cows back.”
“I reckon you’re right at that,” Adams conceded as he swung back into his saddle.
“Hold it one minute, Wes,” Patrick ordered.
“Yeah, Pat?” Adams replied.
“It looks like the foreman’s job is open again. How would you like to have it?” Patrick asked.
“Not a chance,” Adams bluntly responded. “Seems like anyone who takes that job gets his hide punctured by a chunk of lead muy pronto. I’ll just keep punchin’ Rocking N cows”
“I can’t say that I blame you,” Patrick admitted.
Adams turned his horse and headed back to the milling herd.
“Now you’d better let me patch up that arm,” Jim ordered Ronny as Adams rode off.
“It is hurtin’ a mite,” Ronny allowed.
“I’d guess it is,” Jim wryly chuckled. “Roll up your sleeve and let me have a look at it.”
“Sure.” Ronny rolled his shirtsleeve to the shoulder, revealing two ugly holes in his upper left arm.
“You’re lucky,” Jim noted. “The bullet went clean through your arm without hitting the bone. I’ll just wash out those holes, plug and dress ‘em, then bandage you up. You’ll be good as new in a few weeks.”
Grimacing, Ronny bit his lip against the pain as Jim poured raw whiskey into the bullet holes. “That sure smarts,” he muttered as the stinging liquid burned into his torn flesh.
“I know it does, but I’ve gotta get that wound cleaned out as much as possible so you don’t get blood poisoning,” Jim answered. “I’ll be done in a couple of minutes.” He quickly covered the wounds with salve, padded them thickly with gauze, then wrapped a bandage tightly around the young rancher’s arm. “There, that’s done,” he announced with satisfaction. “Just roll down your sleeve, then let me have your bandanna so I can put that arm in a sling. Feel any better?”
“Much,” Ronny gratefully replied, as Patrick handing him a bottle of whiskey he’d retrieved from his own saddlebags. “And this’ll make it feel even better,” he added as he took a long swig of the liquor, then passed the bottle back to his brother, who took a long swallow for himself.
Once Jim had finished tying Ronny’s arm in a sling, he turned his attention to Patrick, cleaning and taping a bandage over the shallow bullet gash on his forehead.
“Lieutenant, we appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” Patrick told Jim as he worked on the rancher.
“Por nada,” Jim answered, “That’s what we Rangers are paid for.”
“I can’t help wonderin’ where those renegades would have taken our cows and how they’d get rid of them,” Patrick speculated. “We figured our brand was pretty hard to alter.”
“They probably were headed for the Territories,” Jim answered, “Or maybe they had a buyer who wasn’t too fussy about where those cows came from or who owned ‘em already lined up. As far as that Rocking N, it wouldn’t be too difficult to change it by usin’ a running iron to add two lines to turn the N into a box, making it the Rocking Slash Box, or else those lines and another slash, making your Rocking N the Rocking Box X. Any hombre handy with an iron could do it.”
“There’s pretty much not a brand in Texas that can’t be changed by a dishonest cowpuncher who’s good with a hot iron,” Smoky added.
“You’re right about that,” Patrick ruefully agreed. “Anyway, thanks again for your help. Will you be heading back to our spread with us? You’re more than welcome, anytime.”
Jim glanced up at the sun, now well more than halfway past its noon zenith.
“We’ve got a couple more hours of daylight left, and Smoke and I’ve still got a lot of miles ahead of us. We’ll help you bury these rustlers, then head on out.”
“Bueno,” Patrick answered. “I reckon we’ll spend the night here and rest up, being as this is an ideal spot to keep the herd bunched. They’re still a mite spooky from the gunfire. And,” he admitted, “we could use some rest ourselves. We’ll start out fresh first thing in the morning.”
“That’s probably best,” Jim agreed as he finished taping the bandage in place. “There, I’m finished. Let’s get those hombres in the ground.”