2

It took some doing the next morning for Pete to bend the outlaw’s rigor mortis stiffened body, so he could drape it belly-down over the gray’s saddle, then lash it in place. Once that was accomplished, Pete mounted his own horse and resumed his journey to Rankin. He would reach his destination sometime that afternoon.

As Pete loped along, he mused on how to handle the reaction his arrival in Rankin would stir. A stranger leading a horse carrying a dead man was sure to attract more than the usual share of notice. Add in that stranger’s youthful appearance, which belied the fact he was a Texas Ranger, and he was sure to gain some unwanted attention.

“Reckon we might have a bit of trouble explainin’ this, Troop,” he spoke to his horse. “Well, no point puttin’ it off.”

He pushed Trooper to a faster pace.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It was late afternoon when Pete rode into Rankin. The town was busy with folks shopping and conducting business. A crowd soon gathered, following the young Ranger and his grisly burden. Pete ignored their shouted questions until he reined up in front of the marshal’s office, which was padlocked and dark.

A burly individual, wearing a white grocer’s apron, pushed his way through the mob.

“Hey, you! What’s goin’ on here?” he demanded.

“Seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?” Pete retorted. “I’m bringin’ in a dead man.”

“You watch that mouth with me, mister,” the grocer snapped. “I’m the mayor of this town, and I’m askin’ you a question. Now who are you, and where’d you find that hombre?

“I count that as two questions. Ask ‘em politely, and you might get an answer,” Pete softly replied.

“He’s got you there, Porter,” a bystander laughed. “You always did have a big mouth.”

“All right. Reckon I did come off a bit gruff,” Porter conceded. “I’m Hiram Porter. Like I said, I’m Rankin’s mayor. Sorry for spoutin’ off like I did, but with our bank bein’ robbed and the marshal killed durin’ the holdup, we’re a bit on edge. We’ve been waitin’ for a Texas Ranger

to show up from Austin, but there’s been no sign of him. Instead you show up, totin’ a body.”

“Don’t fret it, Mayor,” Pete responded. “First, I found this hombre a few miles outside of town. Only he wasn’t dead when I came across him. He jumped me, then tried to kill me so he could steal my horse. I shot him instead.”

“You killed him?” Porter echoed.

“I sure did. It was him or me. He didn’t give me a choice. Now, to answer your other question, I’m the Ranger you’re waitin’ on. Texas Ranger Pete Natowich.”

“You’re a Texas Ranger?” Porter exclaimed, looking over the youthful lawman. “Hardly seems likely.”

“My papers and orders are in my pocket,” Pete answered. “I know I’m a mite young lookin’, but I’ve been a Ranger for some time now. I’ve been assigned to track down the men who robbed your bank and killed your town marshal. I’m supposed to take care of the law in Rankin until you appoint a new marshal.”

“Dunno if a youngster can handle that job,” someone muttered.

“You want to try me and find out?” Pete challenged. “Besides, you’ve got no choice. With all the problems along the border, the Rangers are real short-handed. I’m the only man available.”

“I guess beggars can’t be choosers,” Porter conceded. “You must be all right, if you made the grade as a Ranger. Tell you what. Besides bein’ the mayor, I run the general store and do the undertakin’ here. Take that body to my store. It’s a block down. Mebbe someone’ll recognize that jasper.”

“Okay,” Pete agreed. “Once that’s done, I’ll want the keys to the marshal’s office. Reckon I’ll be bunkin’ there a spell.”

“I’ve got those at the store,” Porter answered. He gestured to an old man, who hovered at the edge of the crowd.

“Hug Prescott here runs the livery stable. He’ll take good care of your cayuse.”

“That’s fine. Trooper here deserves the best.”

“He’ll get that from me, Ranger,” the elderly hostler spoke up. “My stable’s right next to the marshal’s office, so your bronc’ll be handy whenever you need him.”

“Gracias,” Pete replied. He backed Trooper and the dead outlaw’s horse away from the hitchrail and walked them to Porter’s Mercantile. The spectators pressed closely behind.

When they reached the store, a tall, well-dressed individual pushed his way through the crowd and walked up to Pete.

“I just heard a dead man was brought in. You the one who found him? Any idea who he is?” he demanded of Pete, not even giving the Ranger a chance to dismount.

“I’m the one who killed him,” Pete corrected, “If it’s any business of yours, Mister. Is everybody in this town rude?”

“I’m the president of the Rankin Bank, Ebenezer Montrose. I want to know about this body. I thought perhaps he was one of the men who robbed my bank and shot down Marshal Tucker.”

“You might want to ask a bit more civilly,” Pete replied. “I don’t work for you.”

“This man’s a Texas Ranger, Ebenezer,” Porter interjected. “The dead hombre tried to kill him for his horse. As you can see, the Ranger shot straighter.”

“I apologize for being so abrupt, Ranger,” Montrose said to Pete. “It’s just that I’m anxious to find those outlaws and murderers.”

The banker had dark eyes, which seemed to Pete to glitter like a snake’s. His black hair was carefully pomaded in place, his mustache crisply trimmed. His well-tailored suit was carefully cut to fit his slim figure. Montrose held a thin, unlit cigar.

“I understand,” Pete answered. “Let’s get him off his horse and inside, then you folks can take a look at him.”

“Makes sense,” the banker agreed.

Pete dismounted, and looped Trooper’s and the outlaw’s horse’s reins around the rail. The dead man was lifted from his horse and carried into the back room of the store, where he was laid out on the floor.

“He doesn’t look familiar to me,” Porter observed. “Any of you ever seen this man?”

His question was met with a murmur of negatives.

“Those robbers were masked, so he could’ve been one of ‘em,” Jake Butler, the saloonkeeper, noted.

“Could’ve been, but I’ve never seen his horse in town. That animal was never put up at my stable, either,” Prescott noted.

“Ranger, where’d you say you shot this man?” Montrose questioned.

“A few miles outside of town. My horse was tired, so I decided to rest him a spell. I was lettin’ Trooper graze and gettin’ some shut-eye for myself when he came up on me.”

“You didn’t find any identification on him?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing in his saddlebags which might indicate who he was? No letters, papers, anything like that?” Montrose insisted.

“Not a thing,” Pete replied. “Reckon he was just a driftin’ renegade. Once I get settled in, I’ll check my

Fugitive List to see if he matches any descriptions in that.”

“The Ranger here’s gonna be the law in town until we appoint a new marshal,” Porter explained.

“Fine, fine. If anyone can track down those murderers, a Ranger can,” Montrose answered.

“Let’s cover this hombre for now. Soon as I can nail a few boards together for a coffin, we’ll bury him,” Porter said. He lifted a ring of keys from a peg over his desk and handed them to Pete.

“Ranger, here’s the keys to the marshal’s office.”

“Thanks,” Pete answered. “Guess I’ll mosey over there and make myself comfortable. Mister Montrose, once I get some rest, I’d like to question you about the robbery.”

“Certainly,” Montrose agreed. “I’m at your disposal, Ranger.”

Once the body was covered, Pete and the others headed back outside.

“Trooper!” Pete exclaimed. “What are you doin’, horse?”

Trooper merely looked up from munching on a split open watermelon and nickered, then again buried his muzzle in the sweet fruit. The big bay had stretched his reins to the limit, in order to reach a display of

watermelons on the boardwalk in front of Porter’s. He had knocked several from the display, and was happily chowing down. The outlaw’s gray was also working on a melon which had rolled within his reach.

“I’m sorry, Mister Porter,” Pete apologized. “I should’ve known enough not to tie my horse so close to those watermelons. He dotes on ‘em. I’ll pay you for them.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Porter offered. “It’s worth losing a few melons to have a Ranger here. Your horse is welcome to them. Just don’t let him make a habit of stealin’ ‘em.”

“I promise you that,” Pete said. He untied Trooper, while Hug Prescott took the gray’s reins.

“C’mon, Troop. Time you had a good feed and rubdown,” Pete told the gelding.

Pete left Trooper and the outlaw’s gray at Prescott’s Livery. Satisfied they would be well cared for, he took his saddlebags and Winchester, then headed for the marshal’s office.

“This isn’t too bad,” the Ranger murmured, after he entered the office and shut the door behind him. While the room was coated with a layer of dust, it was otherwise in decent shape. Two cells were at the back of the office, and a bunk for the marshal was in a far corner, while a coffeepot sat on a stove opposite. Pete removed his gunbelt and hung it from a peg over the cot. He sat on

the edge of the mattress, pulled off his boots, and slipped out of his shirt. Pete stretched out on the bunk. Within minutes, the exhausted Ranger was sleeping soundly.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

While Pete slept the afternoon away, Ebenezer Montrose was busy. It wasn’t an hour after Pete had reached town when two men dressed in cowpuncher’s outfits arrived at the Rankin Bank, in answer to the banker’s summons. Montrose ushered them into his private office, shutting the door behind them.

“What’s the problem, Montrose?” Ben Reed asked. “You interrupted my visit with a very willing young lady. I don’t appreciate that.”

“Yeah, and I was in the midst of a winning streak,” Tom Pardee complained.

“Just sit down. We have a problem,” Montrose answered. “Light up if you want. This is going to take awhile.”

Both men took seats. Montrose waited while they rolled and lit quirlies before continuing. He lit a cigar, poured a glass of whiskey for himself, and two for the others.

“All right. You saw the body that Ranger brought in this afternoon.”

“Yeah. So what?” Reed grunted.

“That dead man’s John Hunter.”

“Hunter? You mean the hombre who was supposed to retrieve the money we stole and bring it back for us to split?” Pardee demanded.

“The same,” Montrose confirmed.

“Did the Ranger mention findin’ any money on Hunter?” Reed asked.

“No, he didn’t,” Montrose answered. “He claims there was no identification on Hunter’s body, either. I don’t believe him.”

“You mean you think the Ranger is plannin’ on keeping that cash for himself?” Reed questioned.

“That’s a possibility. But I have a feelin’ he’s too honest to do that,” Montrose replied. “Besides, he most likely would have made a run for the border with that money by now if he intended to take off with it.”

“I dunno. Over forty thousand dollars is enough dinero to tempt any man,” Pardee disagreed.

“That’s true,” Montrose admitted. “But let’s assume he’s not keeping the money. That means one of two things. Either, as he claims, there wasn’t anything on Hunter to give us away. More likely, that Ranger went through Hunter’s clothes and saddlebags. He found my letter with the directions to where the money is stashed, and is going to play things close to his vest. He’ll wait to see if anyone else goes after the cache.”

“For that matter, he might’ve killed Hunter right where the money’s hidden,” Reed speculated. “Mebbe he came up on Hunter diggin’ up the loot, surprised him, they shot it out, and Hunter came out on the short end. Now the Ranger’s just bidin’ his time until he can grab the money for himself.”

“Or will wait until someone goes for it, like Montrose says,” Pardee stated. “So what do we do now, Montrose?”

“We’ll wait a bit, perhaps a couple of days,” Montrose answered. “Then you’ll get Stanton, Lennox, and Jackson. You’ll go after that money.”

“What about the Ranger?” Pardee protested. “If you’re right, he’ll be watchin’ for someone to make a move.”

“I want him to follow you,” Montrose explained. “Once you reach the right spot, kill him.”

“Should be easy enough,” Pardee agreed.

“Don’t ever underestimate a Ranger,” Montrose warned.

“I wouldn’t, but this one’s hardly a Ranger,” Pardee sneered.

“Tom’s right,” Reed concurred. “We all heard that kid tell Porter he was the only man Austin could send. He’s still wet behind the ears. I think it’d be a good idea to find out just how tough he really is.”

“He killed Hunter, and Hunter was real good with a gun,” Montrose noted.

“Yeah, but the Ranger must’ve taken him by surprise,” Reed answered. “Let me try’n take him on here in town. Mebbe he’ll turn yellow and run, if he’s up against a real challenge. That’ll solve our problem.”

“You can try if you want,” Montrose answered. “Just remember one thing. Don’t kill him, at least not in town. The last thing we’d need is more Rangers snoopin’ around because one of their own got killed. It’s better to wait until you’ve got that Ranger where no one will ever find his body.”

“We should keep an eye on him, just in case he does leave town real sudden-like,” Pardee advised. “He might just have left the money where it’s at until things have quieted down. That’d be the smart thing to do. After a spell, he could pick up the money and just keep ridin’.”

“That’s a possibility I hadn’t considered,” the banker admitted.

“Don’t worry, Montrose. We’ll take care of the Ranger, one way or another,” Reed assured the banker.

“Good. Now, let’s figure out how to make sure he follows you when you ride out although, I doubt that will be much of a problem. If the Ranger found my letter in Hunter’s possession, he’ll be watching me real closely. Then both of you get out of here. I’ll get word to you

when it’s time to make our move. And remember, don’t think of double-crossin’ me. You’ll regret it.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Pete awoke just before sundown.

“Slept longer’n I planned,” he muttered. “Reckon I’ll have to wait ‘til tomorrow to talk with that banker. ‘Sides, my belly’s growlin’. Been too long since I’ve had a decent meal.”

He found a pitcher and basin on a shelf, and filled these from the pump out back. He washed up, pouring the water over his blonde hair, letting it run down his chest and shoulders. That done, he redressed and headed for the nearest café. There, he ate a meal of steak, boiled potatoes, and green beans, following up with a huge slab of dried-apple pie and several cups of strong black coffee. After supper, Pete spent the next two hours making the rounds of Rankin. He finished his first watch at Jake Butler’s Red Rooster saloon, intending to take a break over a beer or two.

“Howdy, Ranger!” Butler boomed a greeting. “Step right up to the bar. What can I get for you?”

“Evenin’, Mister Butler,” Pete answered. “I’ll have a beer.”

“Comin’ right up, Ranger. And call me Jake.”

Butler filled a mug and placed it in front of Pete, who tossed a dime on the bar.

“That’s for a refill,” he said, then took a swallow of the brew, which, to his surprise, was chilled, unlike the warm beer served in most frontier barrooms.

“Good beer, Jake. It’s even cold.”

“That’s ‘cause I keep the kegs in my cellar. I get ice in the winter, cover it with sawdust, and it lasts most of the summer,” Jake explained.

“Well, it sure tastes good,” Pete replied. He took another swallow.

“Now’s our chance,” Ben Reed hissed to his partner. “Let’s go.”

He and Tom Pardee left their place at the far end of the bar and took up positions on either side of Pete. They didn’t waste any time in taunting the young lawman.

“You must’ve been real lucky, kid, to gun down that hombre,” Reed said.

“Might’ve been,” Pete shrugged, not rising to the bait.

“I’d bet he wasn’t lucky, Ben,” Pardee piped up. “Just sneaky. I’d hazard he drilled that jasper from ambush. A young’n’ll do that, tryin’ to make a reputation for himself.”

“Mebbe we should try and find out,” Reed answered. “What d’ya say, kid?”

“I wouldn’t try it,” Pete warned, his voice low and menacing.

“You gonna let this young pup order you around, Ben?” Pardee sneered.

“No wet behind the ears lawman’ll ever tell me what to do,” Reed replied. He grabbed for his gun.

Instantly, Pete’s hand slashed down and up, jerking his Colt from its holster. He jabbed the barrel deep into Reed’s gut. Reed doubled over, air whooshing from his lungs. Pete brought his pistol down in a streaking arc, slamming it into the base of Reed’s skull. The gunman collapsed, out cold.

Before Pardee could even react, Pete whirled and drove his knee into Pardee’s groin. With a howl of agony, Pardee went to his knees. Pete clubbed his gun barrel onto the top of Pardee’s head. Pardee toppled to the sawdust-covered floor.

“Anyone else want to try something?” Pete challenged, the gun in his hand and the glint in his blue eyes seeming to mark every man in that room for death.

Butler’s voice cut through the dead silence.

“I reckon not, Ranger.”

“Bueno,” Pete said. “I figure a night in a cell will cool these two off. Couple of you help me carry ‘em to the jail. Keep my beer waitin’, Jake. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Will do, Ranger,” Butler grinned. “Morrissey, Hughes, give the Ranger some help.”

Reed and Pardee were hauled to the jail and dumped unceremoniously into one of the cells. They were still lying on the floor, unconscious, when Pete finished his rounds, well after midnight.