3

The three men riding out of Austin gave no outward sign of being Texas Rangers. Their garb was that of the common drifting cowpoke, faded shirts and jeans, bandannas, leather vests, scuffed boots, and sweat- stained Stetsons. Rangers wore no uniforms, and few wore badges, although Huggins, Taggart, and French carried silver stars on silver circles they’d hand-carved from Mexican ten peso coins in their shirt pockets, out of sight until needed.

Taggart was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair and eyes. French was slightly shorter than average, with a wiry build and swarthy complexion. With his jet black hair and eyes, he was often mistaken for a Mexican or half-breed Indian. He found that useful for undercover work, playing those roles to perfection. Huggins was the veteran of the trio. He was also tall and lean, his brown hair running to gray at the temples.

They set a steady pace on their northwestward run. With two hundred and fifty miles to their destination, it would take nearly a week of hard riding before they reached the lower Panhandle.

One day’s ride out of Roscoe they settled into the best campsite they’d found since leaving Austin, a grassy hollow alongside a small creek. Scattered boulders sheltered the hollow and blocked the steady wind. The tired men cared for their horses, ate a quick supper, then rolled in their blankets.

“Man, I can hardly wait to reach town so I can sleep in a hotel room and get some good chuck,” Dade commented.

“Along with a bath and shave,” Clay added.

“Our horses can use a good grainin’ and rest too,” Huggins noted. “Now let’s get some shut-eye.”

They were soon sleeping.

Sometime later, Clay was awakened by a sixth sense warning of danger. The usual stirrings of the night creatures were silent. He quietly slid his Colt from the holster alongside him, then glanced at his partners. Dade and Jim were also awake, staring into the darkness.

Clay could make out several vague figures slipping through the dark in their direction. Noiselessly they approached, wraithlike. Two were heading for the Rangers’ picketed horses.

“Comanches!” Clay hissed. He leveled his Colt at one nearing the horses and fired. The Comanche screamed, then collapsed with Clay’s bullet in his side.

Instantly the other warriors opened fire at the Rangers, some with rifles, the others showering arrows down on the camp. The Rangers returned fire, and three more of their attackers went down.

Dade grunted when an arrow tore along his ribs. His return shot knocked another Indian off his feet.

One of the braves climbed a boulder and leapt at Jim, a long-bladed knife in his hand. Jim whirled and fired, his bullet catching the Comanche in the belly while still in mid-air. The Comanche shrieked and crumpled to the dirt, writhing. Jim put a finishing shot into his chest.

As quickly as they had appeared, the Co manches retreated, fading into the night.

“You both all right?” Clay called.

“I’m fine,” Jim answered.

“Seem to be,” Dade responded. “An arrow scraped my side, but it ain’t much. Reckon they’ll be back?”

“I doubt it, but we’d better keep a close watch just in case,” Clay stated. “Meantime, let’s check these dead ones.”

Guns still at the ready, they examined the bodies. Jim whistled in surprise when he rolled the Comanche he’d shot onto his back.

“This one ain’t a full-blooded Comanch’,” he exclaimed. “Look at his eyes. They’re blue.”

“Hair’s light for an Indian, too,” Dade added. “Looks like we might have some white men runnin’ with these renegades.”

“Else he’s a half-breed, or a white who was captured as a boy and’s been livin’ with the Comanches,” Clay noted. “Kinda like Quanah Parker, one of their great chiefs. His father was an Indian, but his mother was a captured white woman.”

“You’re right,” Jim agreed. “At least we don’t have to worry about these botherin’ anyone else.”

“What’re we gonna do with ‘em?” Dade questioned.

Clay looked at the gray of the false dawn streaking the eastern horizon.

“It’s not that long to sunup,” he observed. “We’ll just leave ‘em here. Their compadres’ll come back for them, since Indians don’t like leavin’ their dead behind.”

“Makes sense,” Jim agreed. “However, in case those others have revenge on their minds, I suggest we ride out right now, before they come back with reinforcements.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Clay admitted.

Moments later, their horses were saddled and the Rangers were back on the trail.