2

“Looks like we’re gonna have ridin’ pards this trip, Mike,” Clay observed as he reined up in front of Ranger Headquarters, dismounted, and looped Mike’s reins over the hitchrail. He recognized the two mounts already nosing the rail, Dade French’s steeldust, Spook, and Dusty, Jim Huggins’ long-legged chestnut.

Clay entered the building and strode down the hallway to Captain Joseph Morris’s office. Huggins and French were already seated. The captain looked up from behind his desk when Clay walked in.

“See boys, told you when a man gets married you just can’t count on him,” Morris joked.

“I reckon that means me too, Cap’n,” Jim Huggins laughed. The veteran sergeant was married, with a daughter and son.

“Don’t forget, you’ve also got a wife, Cap’n,” Clay retorted.

“Please don’t remind me,” Morris sighed. “Dade here’s the only one of us with sense enough not to get hitched.”

“Boy howdy, that’s for certain,” Dade agreed. He took a puff on his quirly. “No female’s gonna tie me down.”

“I wouldn’t bet a hat on it,” Clay chuckled.

“That’s enough discussion of the marital state,” Morris ordered. “Clay, pour yourself a cup of coffee and pull up a chair.”

“All right.”

Clay took a mug from the shelf, lifted the battered coffeepot from the stove in the corner, and poured the mug brimful. He settled into a cane bottom chair.

Morris opened the manila folder on his desk. He put on a pair of pince-nez spectacles to scan its contents, then leaned back in his chair. He lit his pipe and took a long pull, sending a blue smoke ring toward the ceiling.

“You boys are headin’ for the lower Panhandle. There’s a heap of trouble brewin’ up there.”

“What kind of trouble?” Dade asked.

“Indian trouble, and outlaw trouble. Is there any other kind?” Morris replied.

“Women trouble,” Dade laughed.

“You’re not gonna have time to worry about that kind of trouble,” Morris assured him.

“I’m kinda surprised to hear talk of Indian trouble. The Comanch’ haven’t been a problem for quite some time,” Jim said.

“Well, from the reports I’ve gotten, they’re raidin’ again,” Morris explained. “However, that’s not your main assignment. The Army’s still supposed to be handling the Comanches. You’ll just try’n round up any you might stumble across.”

“That leaves the outlaws,” Clay answered.

“It sure does. You’ll have your hands filled with them,” Morris snapped. He turned and pointed to the wall map behind him.

“You know folks are startin’ to settle up that way, and counties are bein’ organized. One of those is Scurry County. Its seat is a town called Snyder. However, there’s no law to speak of in that whole region, so the settlers are pretty much at the mercy of any renegades preyin’ on ‘em.”

“So you want us to round up those renegades and quiet things down,” Jim said.

“That, and more.”

Morris traced a line on the map with his finger.

“There’s a railroad building along this route. Plans are to extend the line into New Mexico, then north to Denver, although I think the backers are bein’ real optimistic believing they’ll ever build all the way to California. I

figure their road will end up bein’ absorbed by the Texas and Pacific before too long. In the meantime, their trains are bein’ robbed on a regular basis. Their construction crews are also bein’ harassed, by both Comanches and renegade whites. Besides the settlers who’ve lost their lives, several railroaders have been killed. The railroad’s asked for our help. I want you to stop the robberies and those attacks.”

“Plus any other Indians or desperadoes we might find,” Clay grinned. “Seems simple enough.”

“These things are never as easy as they appear. You know that, Clay,” Morris chided.

“I reckon that’s so, Cap’n,” Clay conceded.

“That’s it? Dade asked.

“That’s enough, ain’t it?” Morris retorted.

“I figure it is. Let’s get ridin’,” Jim said. He and the others stood up.

“Vaya con Dios, men,” Morris said. “Watch your backs.”

“And our guts,” Dade replied, with a thin smile. “I’m not overly fond of takin’ a bullet, from either front or back.”

“I mean it. Be careful,” Morris insisted.

“Count on it,” Clay replied.

Morris stood at his desk to watch the three men untie their horses, mount, and lope down Congress Avenue. Once they were out of sight, he turned back toward his desk. He ran a hand through his graying hair, started for the stove, then changed his mind.

“I don’t need coffee. I need a drink,” he muttered. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out a bottle and glass.

Morris filled the tumbler, downed its contents, and refilled it. His frosty blue-gray eyes took on a troubled expression. He gazed at the tumbler’s amber contents for a moment, then tossed them down.

“Wish I could be ridin’ with them,” he muttered. “I’ve got a feelin’ they’ll have their hands full. Sure hope they can handle whatever’s thrown their way.”