4

It was early the next evening when they reached Roscoe. For a Wednesday night, the town was surprisingly busy. The road was filled with men and women, the boardwalks packed shoulder to shoulder. Men jostled each other as they forced their way through the crowd.

One drunken railroader stumbled into Mike. Clay’s normally placid pinto pinned back his ears and bit the man’s shoulder, ripping away a chunk of flesh.

“Hey, you! Your horse.” The railroader started to challenge Mike’s rider, but wilted under Clay’s steady gaze. Muttering under his breath, he turned, and melted back into the crowd.

“This town’s sure a rip-roarin’ place,” Dade observed. “Wonder why?”

“Dunno, but we’ll find out. There’s the marshal’s office.”

Jim pointed to a makeshift office and jail, a block away.

They rode up to the building, dismounted, and looped their horses’ reins over the rail. They stepped inside to find a young, harried-looking deputy.

“Don’t tell me you three have a complaint,” he muttered when they stepped through the door.

“Nope. We’re Texas Rangers,” Jim replied. “Sergeant Jim Huggins, Rangers Clay Taggart and Dade French.”

“Rangers! I’m sure glad to see you,” the deputy exclaimed. “I’m Pete Townsend. I’ve got my hands full, as you probably guessed, from that mob outside.”

“Seems a mite rowdy out there all right,” Clay noted. “What’s the big ruckus about?”

“The railroad’s finally got the trackbed finished from here to Snyder, so they’ve given all their workers the day off tomorrow to celebrate, and a bonus besides. Then they start layin’ rails the day after.”

“Looks like they’ve started celebratin’ a bit early,” Dade chuckled.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Townsend replied. “That’s why I’m glad for your help. You sure got here at the right time.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, deputy,” Jim answered, “but we’re only stoppin’ here for the night, then headin’ toward Snyder in the morning. We’ll do what we can while we’re in town, but we’re after the

renegades doin’ the killin’ and stealin’ in these parts, not drunken railroaders.”

“That’s not the news I wanted to hear,” Townsend complained. “Mebbe you can at least help me keep a lid on this town tonight.”

“We’ll be glad to,” Jim answered. “Soon as we get our broncs settled in and some grub in our bellies.”

“All right,” Townsend agreed. “Livery stable’s two blocks down on the left. Tell ol’ Zeke there I said the town’ll pay for puttin’ up your horses. Far as chuck, head for the Kansas Café. It’s across from the livery. Best steaks within a hundred miles. The hotel’s right across the street. I’ll make sure they hold a room. You gonna want some drinks?”

“We could be talked into a few,” Dade grinned.

“Then once you’re done with supper, head for the Gilded Lily, another block past the stable. I’ll meet you there in say, two hours.”

“That’ll be enough time for us to finish,” Clay answered. “See you then, deputy.”

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

The Rangers had finished their suppers and were in the Gilded Lily Saloon, nursing beers, when Townsend entered the barroom, accompanied by another man. They headed straight for the Rangers’ table.

“Rangers, got a gentleman here who’s been waitin’ for you to show up,” Townsend announced. “Jasper Wheeler, chief construction superintendent of the Roscoe, Snyder, and Pacific railroad. He just got back on the supply train. Mr. Wheeler, Rangers Huggins, Taggart, and French.”

“That’s Jim, Clay, and Dade,” Huggins replied. “We’re glad to meet you. Please, sit down and join us.”

“The same. And make it Jasper,” the railroader responded. “Pete knows that. I don’t know why he’s being so formal.”

He took the chair alongside Taggart.

“First time introduction,” the deputy shrugged. “Jasper’s got a proposition which might solve both our problems.”

“What do you mean?” Clay asked.

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Wheeler answered before the deputy could respond. “First, I need a drink. How about refills for you Rangers? And Pete?”

“I could stand a beer,” Townsend nodded.

“Another one’d go down good,” Jim agreed.

“One more for me, too,” Clay added.

“Another shot of rye here,” Dade concluded.

“Fine.” Wheeler signaled to the bartender, and placed the order. Once their drinks had been brought, he lit a

cigar, leaned back in his chair, and explained Townsend’s statement.

“Pete tells me you men are heading for Snyder in the morning,” he began.

“That’s right,” Jim confirmed.

“There’s no need for that. Pete’s already told you about the celebration we’ve planned for tomorrow.”

“He has,” Jim replied.

“There will be very few men in Snyder until the day after tomorrow. Since most of our supplies, and the crew’s quarters, are still here in Roscoe, we’ve brought all the men back here, except for a few watchmen in Snyder. The day after tomorrow several work trains will be headed back there. You Rangers can ride with me to Snyder in my private car. I’ll have a boxcar prepared for your horses. That way you can stay here and help Pete keep things under control.”

“You expectin’ that much trouble?” Clay asked.

“Not really, but the men have been working hard and have quite a bit of steam to blow off, so there are bound to be a few quarrels. I’d appreciate your help in keeping those from getting out of hand. By staying and taking the train, you’ll be able to help out here and save a day’s riding. The train will get you to Snyder in only a couple of hours, compared to a full day on horseback. You’ll reach your destination early Friday morning rather

than tomorrow night, which won’t make much difference as far as your assignment is concerned. What do you think?”

“It sounds reasonable,” Dade answered. “However, the decision is the sergeant’s. How about it, Jim?”

“Seems like a good idea,” Huggins answered. “We’ll go along with it. Pete, you still need our help tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” the deputy answered. “Things are settlin’ down. The real shindig doesn’t start until tomorrow, and you boys have been ridin’ hard the past several days. I can handle any trouble tonight. Y’all just take it easy until tomorrow.”

“Fine. We’ll be at your office at seven,” Jim stated.

“That’s settled,” Wheeler concluded. “I have some final details to attend to, so I’ll take my leave. Any more refreshments you would like are on the Roscoe, Snyder, and Pacific. I’ll instruct Moses at the bar to that effect.”

“Not quite so fast,” Clay interrupted. “We need to discuss the attacks on your men.”

“We’ll talk about that on the train,” Wheeler replied. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen. Good night.”

“I’ve got to make my rounds, so I’ll be leavin’ too,” Townsend added. “See you in the mornin’.”

After the railroader and deputy left, Clay, Jim, and Dade lingered over a few more drinks.

“I think I’m gonna sit in on a poker game,” Dade decided. “Either of you care to join me?”

“I might play a hand or two,” Jim agreed. “How about you, Clay?”

“I’ll skip it this time. I’m bushed,” Clay answered. “Think I’ll head back to our room and turn in.”

“Okay. We’ll see you in the morning,” Jim said.

“We’ll try not to wake you when we come in,” Dade added. “G’night, Clay.”

“’Night, both of you.”

Clay headed across the street to the hotel, got the key to their room, and headed upstairs. Leaving the door unlocked for his partners, he undressed, then crawled under the blankets. He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

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

All three men were up with the sun the next morning. Clay was at the washstand shaving, while Jim and Dade were still stretched out under the covers.

“How late’d you get in last night?” Clay asked. “I never heard a thing after I fell into bed.”

“Not too late,” Jim answered. “The card game broke up soon after you left. But we do have another friendly wager to settle.”

“How’s that?”

“Dade, you want to explain it?”

“Sure,” French agreed. “Clay, those railroaders started braggin’ last night about how tough they are, and how any one of ‘em could lick any of us Rangers in a standup fight. You know we couldn’t let that pass.”

“So, which one of you fought?”

“Neither. That’s where you come into the picture.”

“What?” Clay turned and glared at his partners.

“You’re the best scrapper of the three of us,” Dade explained. “We challenged their best fighter to a boxing match, you and him. It’s set for eleven this morning at the livery stable. One of the corrals will be used for a ring.”

“You’re both loco if you think I’m gettin’ myself beat to a pulp just so you can win a bet,” Clay snapped. “Either that, or you had more red-eye than I realized. Forget it. If you want to brawl with one of those hombres, do it yourselves.”

“Clay, you have to fight. Think of the reputation of the Rangers,” Dade insisted. “If you don’t go in that ring, we’ll be laughingstocks.”

“I’m thinkin’ of my hide,” Clay retorted.

“You’re not turnin’ yellow, are you Clay?” Jim broke in. “Besides, the hombre who’s takin’ you on ain’t all that tough. You’ll win, easy.”

“Last time I leave you two alone while I get some shut-eye,” Clay grumbled. “Should’ve known better. You’re not givin’ me any choice, are you?”

“Reckon we’re not,” Jim admitted.

“Besides, it’s easy money. Those railroaders have cash to burn with those bonuses in their pockets. We’ll clean up,” Dade said.

With a sigh, Clay gave in.

“All right. But you’d better not be lyin’ about my chances.”

“Not at all, pard,” Dade assured him.

“We’ll even buy your breakfast,” Jim added. “Just don’t eat too much, in case you catch a punch in the gut. That wouldn’t be a pretty sight.”

“Wonderful. The condemned man gets a last meal,” Clay muttered.

“Jim’s just joshin’. You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Dade replied.

“That’s what scares me,” Clay answered.

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

The Rangers and Deputy Townsend made several patrols of Roscoe. So far things had been fairly uneventful, the deputy only having had to break up one fight.

“The day’s still young. Once these railroad men have some more whiskey in their bellies things’ll heat up,” Townsend predicted. “Right now, a lot of them are waitin’ for the boxing match.”

“Speakin’ of which, it’s quarter to eleven. Reckon we’d better head for the stable,” Jim said.

They started down the street.

“Sure glad I’m refereein’ this fight, instead of takin’ on Pat Doyle,” Townsend noted.

“What do you mean, Pete?” Clay demanded.

“Just that…” Pete stopped short when Jim and Dade glared at him. “Just that I…”

“Never mind. I get your drift. Dade, Jim, I thought you said I’d have no problem.”

“You won’t,” Dade attempted to assure Clay. “Doyle’s a pushover. He won’t last five minutes against you.”

“Your pardner’s right,” Pete agreed.

“Somehow, I’m not buyin’ that,” Clay retorted.

“You’re not backin’ out, are you?” Jim asked.

“Reckon it’s too late,” Clay answered.

They reached the alleyway, and turned down it to the stable.

“Looks like quite a crowd,” Jim remarked.

The makeshift ring was surrounded by spectators, three deep.

“Here comes the Rangers!” one of them shouted. The crowd parted to allow Clay and his companions access to the corral.

Patrick Doyle was already in the ring. The big Irishman had jet black hair and bright blue eyes. He was taller than Taggart by a good three inches, and outweighed the Ranger by at least twenty pounds. Doyle had already peeled off his shirt. His arms, shoulders, and chest bulged with muscles developed by years of laying track for the railroads. His body had not an ounce of fat.

“That’s who I’m fightin’?” Clay exclaimed.

“That’s him,” Dade confirmed.

“The only way I’ll beat that hombre is with both barrels of a ten gauge shotgun,” Clay answered.

“He’s not all that big,” Jim replied.

“For a live oak,” Clay retorted. He unbuckled his gunbelt and stripped offhis shirt, bandanna, and Stetson, then handed them to Huggins.

“You’re gonna have a hard time explainin’ to Lucy why she’s a new widow,” he warned the sergeant, as he ducked under the fence and into the corral.

The spectators, seeing the two men together for the first time, began betting heavily on the railroader.

Pete Townsend called both men to the center of the ring.

“Men, there won’t be any rounds. You’ll fight until one of you is knocked out or quits,” he explained. “The rules are simple. No gouging, kicking, biting, or hitting below the belt, unless I’m lookin’ the other way. Good luck.”

He backed from between the combatants.

Clay and Doyle circled warily for a few moments, each sizing up his opponent. Doyle threw the first punch, a left jab to Clay’s chin. Clay ducked under the blow and shot a right hook to Doyle’s stomach. The railroader barely flinched at the impact.

Clay landed a left to Doyle’s jaw, then Doyle sank his fist deep into the Ranger’s belly. All the air was driven from Clay’s lungs, his guts feeling as if they’d been turned inside out. He jackknifed into a powerful right to his chin. The blow straightened him up, and Doyle slammed another huge fist into Clay’s belly. Clay folded to the dirt, then rolled onto his back.

His head roaring, gasping for breath, Clay was vaguely aware of Townsend beginning the ten count. He lay there, helpless against the pain, struggling to draw air into his lungs. When Townsend reached seven, Clay managed to roll onto his stomach, pushed himself to his hands and knees, and forced himself to his feet just before Townsend counted ten.

Doyle came at Clay again, aiming another left at the Ranger’s head. Clay avoided the punch and landed one of his own, a right that opened a cut over the railroader’s left eye. Before Doyle could recover, Clay landed another blow to his right eye, which quickly swelled shut.

Doyle smashed a left into Clay’s chest, staggering him. Clay countered with a hook to Doyle’s ribs. Infuriated, Doyle swung wildly at Clay’s head, missing when Clay ducked under his huge fist.

Both men stood toe to toe, hammering each other unmercifully. Doyle was half-blinded by his closed right eye and the blood flowing into his left. Clay was bleeding heavily from a slice one of Doyle’s punches had opened along his right cheekbone.

Doyle landed another hard punch to Clay’s midsection, a left hook which sank wrist-deep into the Ranger’s belly. The impact folded Clay over Doyle’s fist and lifted him a foot into the air. Somehow he managed to stagger backwards and avoid the railroader’s following blow.

Doyle closed in to finish Clay off. Clay ducked under a punch which would have taken his head half-off, to land several short, vicious jabs to Doyle’s gut. The blows had their effect on the tiring railroader. He grunted with pain and began to jackknife.

Clay took one step back and, with the last of his strength, launched a wicked uppercut at Doyle’s chin. The punch took Doyle in the soft tissue behind the jawbone, where throat and chin meet. Doyle gagged, fought for air that wasn’t there, and toppled backwards, eyes glazing. He crashed to the ground and lay unmoving.

Clay staggered to the fence and leaned against it, arms draped over the top rail. He stood, chest heaving, while Townsend counted over Doyle. Once he reached ten, Townsend hurried to Clay, to lift the Ranger’s left arm in victory.

“The winner by a knockout! Texas Ranger Clay Taggart!”

The spectators reacted with cheers for the victor and moans for their lost money. Dade and Jim rushed into the ring to join their partner.

“Told you that you’d beat him, Clay,” Dade crowed.

“Yeah. That was some fight,” Jim agreed. “We sure cleaned up, thanks to you, pardner.”

“What are you gonna do now, Clay?” Dade questioned.

“Soon as Doyle comes to, I’m gonna buy him a drink,” Clay answered. “He’s earned it.”