2

Jack Blanchard’s eyes slowly opened, his vision blurry as he stared up at a rough, unfamiliar surface. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he sniffed at the familiar scent of wood smoke, which was mixed with several other odors he could not identify. He sensed, rather than felt, a heavy pressure across his chest and belly, accompanied by a dull ache, far different from the sharp, incapacitating pain he had endured when those bullets tore into him. When his vision cleared somewhat, he realized he was gazing at the cracked rock roof of a cavern.

Blanchard moaned and stirred slightly. Instantly a man’s face appeared above the gravely wounded Ranger, the sharp-featured visage of a young Comanche warrior.

“You are awake,” the Comanche noted in presentable English. “That is good.”

“Who… who are you?” Blanchard stammered. “Where am I?”

“I am Blue Hawk,” the brave replied, “You are in a cave, not far from the place I discovered you, badly wounded.”

The Comanche pulled back the blanket covering Blanchard to reveal the Ranger’s upper torso. An evil- looking mixture of herbs and roots covered Blanchard’s chest, and another was plastered over his belly.

“I must change these poultices,” Blue Hawk explained. “This will hurt.”

Blanchard grimaced and yelped when Blue Hawk removed the dressings from his body, the dried poultices pulling away bits of flesh and dried blood.

“Your wounds are healing well,” the Comanche stated with satisfaction.

“Dunno… dunno how. I’ve been gut-shot,” Blanchard objected. “You’re wastin’ your time, Indian. A man can’t survive takin’ a bullet in his belly, I’ve always been told. And I’ve never met one who has.”

“That is true, in most cases,” Blue Hawk agreed. “However, a belly wound can be survived, especially if treated with Comanche medicines. White men aren’t as wise as they think when it comes to doctoring.”

“But…”

“Stay quiet. You need more rest,” Blue Hawk urged. He removed a fresh batch of the herbs and roots from a pot simmering on the fire. He pressed the steaming concoction into the bullet holes in Blanchard’s chest and belly.

That done, Blue Hawk filled a pottery mug with a foul-smelling brew.

“Now you’ll drink this,” he ordered.

“That smells awful,” Blanchard protested, when the Comanche held the mug to his lips.

“It tastes even worse,” Blue Hawk assured him. “But it will help you sleep some more, and also help you regain your strength.”

“All right,” Blanchard conceded. He took a long swallow of the brew. Almost immediately his eyelids grew heavy and his head fell back.

“That’s right, Ranger,” Blue Hawk whispered. “Sleep is what you need.”

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

When Blanchard next awakened, the pain was almost completely gone. While he still felt tired, he also felt much stronger. The poultices had been removed from his chest and belly, his wounds now merely covered by some light bandages.

Blue Hawk immediately sensed the Ranger had awakened.

“How do you feel?” he asked, as he placed a hand on Blanchard’s forehead. “Your fever is gone.”

“I feel much better,” Blanchard admitted. “I am kinda hungry, though.”

“I told you those medicines would help you recover, Ranger,” Blue Hawk answered. “I’ll have some stew dished out for you in a minute.”

“How’d you know I’m a Texas Ranger?” Blanchard demanded.

“I found your badge in your shirt pocket, when I removed the shirt to treat your wounds,” Blue Hawk explained. “But while you know my name, I do not know yours,” he added.

Still covered by a blanket from the waist down, Blanchard shifted to a half-seated position, leaning his back against the cavern wall, his legs stretched out in front of him.

“It’s Jack. Jack Blanchard.”

“Well, eat this, Jack Blanchard,” the Comanche ordered. He handed the Ranger a tin plate full of steaming venison stew, along with a mugful of an herbal brew.

While Blanchard eagerly devoured his first meal since being shot, he gazed curiously at the Indian.

“How long have I been here?” he asked.

“Sixteen days.”

“And you stuck with me all that time?”

“I did,” Blue Hawk confirmed.

“That just doesn’t figure,” Blanchard protested. He swallowed another mouthful of stew, then continued.

“Why didn’t you just let me die, or finish what those renegades started and kill me? You could’ve finished me off with no trouble.”

Blanchard was well aware of the animosity which existed between the Texas Rangers and most Indian tribes. He himself had killed his share of Comanches and Kiowas during his Ranger career, and had seen many of his Ranger comrades succumb to Indian arrows or bullets.

“There is only one reason,” Blue Hawk explained. “I left the Territory reservation to find the white men who attacked my village and killed my wife, son, and two daughters. I followed their trail into Texas.”

“What’s that got to do with not killin’ me?” Blanchard persisted when Blue Hawk paused.

“I was getting close to those men. I could feel it,” the Comanche continued, “Then just before the sun set sixteen days ago, I heard gunfire in this very canyon. Before I reached the spot from where it came, the firing had faded away, and there were no men left in the canyon, except two. One was already dead. The other, who was badly wounded, carried a Ranger star in his shirt pocket. The dead man I knew was one of the men who attacked my village. Since it was clear you had killed him before

you were shot, I realized the Great Spirit wanted me to care for you, until you recovered or were taken by Him. And that if you survived, you and I were fated to hunt down those men together.”

“I’ve got to say I’m grateful. Surprise, but grateful,” Blanchard admitted. “Can you tell me what this hombre I downed looked like?”

“Dark of hair and eyes, both so brown as to appear black,” Blue Hawk described. “Tall and heavy, with a scar under his left eye. Your bullet struck him just under the heart.”

“Blue Hawk, did you happen to recover my horse and saddle,” Blanchard asked.

“I did,” Blue Hawk confirmed. “Your horse is staked outside, along with my pony. Your saddle is cached in the back of this cave.”

“There’s a leather-bound book in my saddlebags. Would you please get it for me?” Blanchard requested. “I believe I know who that man was, but I want to be certain.”

“I will do that,” Blue Hawk agreed. He disappeared toward the rear of the cavern, beyond the fire’s light. He returned shortly, with the book in his hand.

“Here you are, Ranger.”

Blue Hawk handed Blanchard the book, which had leather covers loosely held together by a length of string.

Blanchard quickly thumbed through the book, his copy of the Ranger’s Fugitive List, otherwise known as the Ranger’s Bible. It contained the descriptions of every known wanted man in the state of Texas. Blanchard stopped about a third of the way through the book when he found the listing he sought.

“Sure enough, that was Mack Duquesta,” he said. “He was one of the Horton outfit. That means there are five of ‘em left.”

“I do not know their names,” Blue Hawk softly answered, “But I do know the spirits of my wife and children cry out for justice, and they will not rest until it is obtained. And my own soul cries out for revenge on the men who murdered my family.”

“I can tell you their names,” Blanchard stated. “Holt and Bob Horton, the cousins who lead that bunch. Then there’s Dave Smith, Ryne Durant, and Sledge Bascomb. There’s not a decent bone in any of ‘em.”

“We will be on their trail soon enough. And they will not escape me again,” Blue Hawk fiercely declared.

“How soon can we get ridin’?” Blanchard asked.

In response, Blue Hawk took the now-empty plate from Blanchard and set it aside. He hunkered alongside the Ranger and removed the bandages from Blanchard’s chest and belly.

“Your wounds are healing very quickly,” the Comanche noted. Indeed, the bullet holes were now merely puckered scars, still livid but beginning to fade. “You do need some more time to recover your strength. I would say within two days.”

“That’s too long,” Blanchard objected. “Those renegades already have a better’n two week jump on us.”

“That is true. However, I have been studying their habits and following their trail for nearly two months now,” Blue Hawk replied. “I will know where to find them.”

“Reckon I don’t have much choice,” Blanchard conceded. “I guess a couple more days won’t make much difference.”

“That’s right,” Blue Hawk concurred. “Now, you should get more rest.”

“I don’t need rest as much as I need coffee,” Blanchard retorted, adding as he ran a hand over his whisker- stubbled jaw, “And a bath and shave.”

“I can get your razor and soap from your saddlebags. There is a pond right outside this cavern where you can bathe,” Blue Hawk offered.

“I sure appreciate that,” Blanchard answered. He tossed aside his blankets and came to his feet. The Ranger swayed only slightly as he stood up, then steadied himself.

Once Blue Hawk handed him the razor and bar of yellow soap, Blanchard headed outside. T, his paint gelding, nickered a greeting when he saw his rider standing in the entrance of the cave.

“Sure is good to see you again too, ol’ pard,” Blanchard called to the horse.

“Ranger, I mean Jack.”

Blue Hawk spoke from where he stood alongside Blanchard.

“Yeah, Blue Hawk?”

“That is a fine pony you ride. I must admit, had our trails crossed under different circumstances, I would have killed you for your horse. You would have died with my arrow in your belly, for killing a white man to steal a horse as fine as yours would bring great honor to any Comanche warrior.”

Blue Hawk chuckled as he glanced at Blanchard’s unruly thatch of thick blonde hair.

“And taking a yellow scalp such as yours would bring even more honor, as well as being powerful medicine.”

“I might have had something to say about that,” Blanchard disagreed with a laugh of his own. “Mebbe I would’ve put a bullet in your guts instead. But I’m sure glad things didn’t happen that way. We’ll ride as partners until we catch up to the Hortons. Once that job is done we can go our separate ways.”

“That is the Great Spirit’s will,” Blue Hawk agreed.

“Seems so,” Blanchard concurred. “Meanwhile, I’d better take that bath.”

“I will have coffee ready by the time you are done,” Blue Hawk announced.

“You know how to brew coffee?” Blanchard asked in surprise.

“I learned many of your white man’s ways while living on the reservation, including how to speak your language,” the Comanche stated. “I found your Arbuckle’s in your saddlebag, so it will be waiting for you. I will also have a cup. By the way, don’t bother looking for the peppermint stick. I’m taking that for myself.”