3

Captain Nathaniel Strong had been pacing the floor of his office for the better part of an hour when Tim and Tate strode in. The captain was built like a bulldog, stocky and muscular. He had dark brown, almost black, hair, and a bushy mustache to match. His brown eyes fixed them with a steady glare.

“Bannon! ‘Bout time you got here,” he said. “And Tate, why didn’t you hustle him along? I told you I needed Tim here right quick. We’ve lost half the morning. Don’t bother to answer,” he said, when Tate started to reply. “Lemme guess. Mrs. Bannon wouldn’t let you leave until she filled both of your bellies.”

“That’s right, Cap’n,” Tate answered.

“Good mornin’, Cap’n, and it sure is,” Tim added. “Don’t worry, she sent along a batch of biscuits for you. Just made.” He passed Strong the sack he held.

“That’s more like it,” Strong said. “Coffee’s on the stove. Shed your coats, pour yourselves a cup and take a chair. We’ve got a lot to go over and not much time to do it in. You’ve got a train to catch.”

“That sure sounds good,” Tim said. “It’s pretty chilly out there. I’d bet the temperature’s barely above freezin’.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Cap’n, I’d like to settle Buddy in his stall and hit my bunk,” Tate said. “I’ve been ridin’ since just after sunup. Wouldn’t mind catchin’ a little more shut-eye.”

“No, Tate, you stay,” Strong ordered. “You’ll be accompanying Tim on this assignment. You’ll be able to get some sleep on the train.”

“You mean that, Cap’n?” Tate asked, in surprise.

“Wouldn’t have said it otherwise,” Strong replied.

“All right then,” Tate said. He and Tim took tin mugs from the shelf over the stove, then filled them with strong black coffee from the battered pot Strong always kept hot on the stove, no matter what the weather, frigid or steaming. They both took chairs from the corner, reversed them, and straddled them. Strong sat behind his old and scarred oak desk. He and Tate rolled and lit cigarettes. Strong took a long drag on his, exhaled a large puff of smoke, picked up some papers from his desk, and passed one of the sheets to Tim.

“Tim, that’s a request from Sheriff Boyd Little of Hudspeth County. He’s got a situation on his hands, and is afraid it’s about to boil over into a full blown range war. That’s somethin’ nobody wants. As you can see, he’s askin’ for Ranger assistance.”

Tim skimmed over the letter’s contents, then handed it back to Strong.

“Hudspeth County? That’s close to five hundred miles from here, mebbe a little better’n that,” Tim said. “Why not just have some men sent from El Paso? That’s a lot closer than Austin.”

“Two reasons. One, there’s the usual border trouble down that way, so there’s no Rangers in El Paso to spare,” Strong answered. “Two, and more importantly, mainly it’s because both the men involved in this dispute have political connections. I’m not certain one or both of them might have some influence on the Rangers already there, too. Also, with those connections, either of them might be able to bring pressure on the Rangers. I want men they aren’t familiar with, men I can absolutely trust. I know you, Tim, and you won’t bend to any man who’s not in the right, rich and powerful or not. And that’s why I’m sending Tate with you. I don’t want you to try and handle this situation on your own. Tate needs more seasoning, and a job like this will be just the experience he needs. In addition, Tim, I know you’ll provide the kind of guidance which will help Tate along. I have a feeling he’s gonna be just the kind of Ranger you are.”

“If we both live long enough,” Tim said, with a rueful laugh.

“Mebbe you’d better explain a bit about this job to me, Cap’n,” Tate said.

“I’m just about to do that,” Strong answered. “It seems there’s two large landowners who have neighboring spreads just outside Sierra Blanca. One’s an hombre name of Earl Tuttle, the other is a Diego Santos.”

“Anglo and Mexican. There’s a recipe for trouble already,” Tate observed.

“That’s right. You catch on fast,” Strong answered. “From what Sheriff Little says, Tuttle runs mainly cattle and tries to raise a few dryland crops, while Santos also runs a good sized bunch of cattle, but also some sheep and goats besides.”

“Sheep and cattle. More trouble,” Tate muttered.

“Again, that’s right,” Strong said. “Apparently Tuttle and Santos have been feudin’ for quite some time now, not only over the boundaries of their land, but also water rights. Tuttle’s family settled there not long after the War, while Santos’ kin have been in the area for a hundred and fifty years or more. They have an old Spanish land grant, and managed to prevail in court, unlike so many of the long-time Mexican families who lost their lands, some rightfully, others to crooked judges and politicians. The only question, it appears, is where the boundary lies, and who owns the creek which meanders back and forth across both ranches. Here, take a look at this map and you’ll see what I mean.”

Strong slid a map across his desk. Tim and Tate both studied it for a few moments.

“Seems to me the way that creek winds both men have rights to it,” Tim said.

“That’s the way it appears to me also,” Strong replied.

“Seems kind of an odd time of year to be fightin’ over water,” Tate said. “Usually these kind of arguments crop up durin’ the dry season, or a drought.”

“That’s true,” Tate agreed. “But this dispute’s been simmerin’ for quite some time now, and Sheriff Little thinks it’s about to come to a head. It’s gonna be up to you and Tim to stop it before it goes any farther.”

Tim took a long swallow of his coffee.

“I’m sorry, Cap’n, but if it’s all the same to you I’d like to pass on this assignment. I missed spendin’ last Christmas with Melinda and Billy, and the Christmas before that, too. I promised ‘em I’d be home for Christmas this time, no matter what. I’m spending it with my wife and boy. You’re gonna have to find another man for this job. I’m certain there’s gotta be at least one Ranger in El Paso who you can trust to take this on. I’m goin’ home.”

Strong shook his head.

“Just stay put, Ranger. I’m sorry, but there’s no one else. This isn’t a request, it’s an order. The job is yours, like it or not. As I already mentioned, the situation is a powder keg ready to explode, with some dynamite thrown in for good measure. So far, there’s been some outbuildings burned, fences cut, cattle and sheep run off, and a few fights. But luckily nobody’s been shot or killed… yet. If things do blow up, it’s liable to turn into more than just a range war, which would be bad enough. With Tuttle bein’ an Anglo and Santos Mexican, real trouble could break out through that whole territory. I don’t need to tell you there’s been hard feelings between Anglos and Mexicans for years.”

“So you’re givin’ me no choice, Cap’n.”

“That’s right, I’m not. Besides, you’ll still be home in plenty of time for Christmas. I’ve arranged passage for both of you and your horses on the Texas and Pacific’s westbound for El Paso out of Fort Worth tomorrow morning. You’ve also got tickets on the local leaving for Fort Worth in just about an hour. Unfortunately it was too late to make connections to any westbound train today, so you’ll have to spend the night in Fort Worth. You’ll catch tomorrow’s train and be in Sierra Blanca the next day. I figure you can meet with Sheriff Little tomorrow afternoon or evening, get any more information he has for you, then arrange meetings with Tuttle and Santos and get this whole situation settled. I’d imagine it’ll only take a couple of days, three tops, and you’ll have everything under control. Then you catch a train back to Fort Worth, hop the local to Austin, and you’ll be home in plenty of time to spend Christmas with your family.”

“Let’s hope it’s that easy,” Tim said.

“I’m countin’ on you makin’ it that easy,” Strong replied. “And who knows? Mebbe a little of the Christmas spirit will rub off on Tuttle and Santos.”

“Or else everything will blow up right in our faces,” Tate said.

“That could happen,” Strong conceded. “Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

“It won’t if I can help it,” Tim said. “I’m gonna make Tuttle and Santos see the light, even if I have to knock some heads together to do it. They’re not gonna keep me away from home for Christmas. Bet your hat on it, Cap’n.”

“That’s exactly why I chose you for this assignment,” Strong said, with a chuckle. “I knew you’d be so impatient to get back home you’re not gonna put up with any nonsense. You’ll straighten ‘em out right quick.” He again grew serious. “Listen, Ranger, I don’t relish sending you on this job any more than you want to take it. However, I’ve got no other man available right now who can handle it, at least without a lot of trouble and probably gunplay besides. That’d be the last thing we’d need. The Big Bend territory’s been fairly quiet for quite a spell now. I’d like to keep it that way. That’s why I’m countin’ on you.”

“I’ll do my best, Cap’n,” Tim said, with a sigh. “Both of us will.”

“Tate?”

“Tim’s right, Cap’n. You can count on me too.”

“Good.” Strong glanced at the Regulator clock on the wall opposite his desk, ticking away the time. “We’d better head over to the depot and make sure everything’s ready for your horses. There’s supposed to be a boxcar prepared to hitch onto the local for Rowdy and Buddy. I’ve got to make certain it is.”

The three men finished their coffee, Tate and Strong stubbed out their smokes, then they headed for the Texas and Pacific station.

***

Despite Captain Strong’s misgivings, the boxcar was indeed ready for Rowdy and Buddy. There was a bucket for water, as well as several flakes of hay stacked in one corner. When the San Antonio to Fort Worth local pulled into the station, the car was quickly coupled to the back of the train. A ramp was set in place and the Rangers led their horses inside. They removed the saddles, blankets and bridles and set those aside. Buddy, this being his first time in a train car, whickered nervously. Tate patted his shoulder to reassure the mouse-colored gelding.

“It’ll be just fine, Buddy. You’ll see. Rowdy’s gonna be right here with you, and I’ll check on you every stop. Just relax and work on that hay.”

Rowdy was a veteran train traveler, so he settled right in. He nuzzled Tim’s pocket for a peppermint. Tim pulled out two.

“I’m gonna give Tate one for Buddy, all right, pard?” he asked. Rowdy nickered, took the treat from Tim’s hand, and crunched down happily. Tate took the other candy and offered it to his horse. Buddy sniffed tentatively at the peppermint, took it daintily between his lips, then tossed his head up and down at first taste of the unfamiliar treat. He nuzzled Tate’s hand for more.

“Not now,” Tate said, laughing. “Mebbe I can talk Tim out of another one for you later. You relax now.” He patted Buddy’s shoulder again.

“Rowdy, I’ll see you later. Try’n get some rest,” Tim ordered. Rowdy nipped at Tim’s ear, then settled to munching on some hay.

The conductor stuck his head in the door.

“You Rangers got those horses settled? We’re behind schedule already, and need to try’n make up some time.”

“We’re just finishin’ up,” Tim answered. He and Tate left the car. The ramp was removed and the door slid shut and latched in place. Captain Strong was still waiting on the platform. He shook both men’s hands.

“Tim, Tate, good luck to both of you. I hope I’m not handin’ you more than you can bite off and chew.”

“Oh, like you haven’t done just that how many times before?” Tim said, chuckling. “Don’t worry, Cap’n. We’ll take care of things for you.”

“I sure hope so, Tim. And remember, we don’t want any gunplay unless absolutely necessary. Tate, you listen to Tim. Make sure you follow his orders. You can learn a lot from him.”

“I will, Cap’n,” Tate assured him.

“Good. Then I’ll see you in a few days. Adios.”

“Adios, Cap’n.” Tim and Tate climbed into the passenger coach just in front of the boxcar containing their horses, then settled into the right back seat. From there, they had a clear view of the entire car, but no one could come up behind them. One thing a Ranger learned, and fast, was to always be cautious. It was either that, or lose his life to an ambush bullet in the back.

The conductor shouted his “All Aboard!” and a moment later the train rolled north out of Austin, bound for Fort Worth.

***

The local from San Antonio to Forth Worth was exactly that, and then some. Besides stopping at every town of any size along the way, it also picked up or left off mail and passengers at several whistle or flag stops en route. Tim and Tate passed the time playing cards, napping, or watching the scenery roll by. It took the train well over ten hours to cover the almost two hundred miles from Austin to Fort Worth. It chugged into the Fort Worth train yards shortly after eight o’clock.

“We’ll take care of the horses, then get a room for the night, Tate,” Tim said as they stepped off the train. “The Texas and Pacific has a railroad hotel right next to the depot here. It’s as good as any. Has a decent restaurant, too. We’ll stay there.”

“Don’t matter much to me where we bed down, long as it’s got a soft mattress and clean sheets,” Tate said. “Sleepin’ on the hard ground does grow tiresome after a while. Before we turn in, how about we visit one of the saloons for a couple of drinks? It’s not like we’re gonna have to get up early tomorrow. Our train doesn’t leave until quarter after ten.”

“Why not? I reckon I could stand a beer or two,” Tim said. “There’s a good place a couple of blocks from here, the Driftin’ Drover. Close enough we can walk, much as I dislike hoofin’ it. We’ll head there after we chow down.” Like most men born and raised to the saddle, Tim hated to walk. He’d much prefer to take his horse, even if the distance was only a block or two. Almost every cowboy felt exactly the same.

Rowdy and Buddy whinnied loud greetings when one of the brakemen opened the boxcar door and they saw their riders waiting. Tim and Tate gave the brakeman four bits to take their gear to the baggage room, to be held for their westbound train, then shouldered their saddlebags, haltered their horses, and led them to a nearby livery stable’s corral. They rubbed down the mounts, made sure they were grained and watered and would be provided plenty of hay. They left the hostler strict instructions for their care, as well as an explicit warning not to get near Tim’s one-man paint. Satisfied the horses would be well cared for, they went to the Texas and Pacific Fort Worth Hotel, obtained a room, cleaned up, and had a supper of thick beefsteaks, boiled potatoes and black-eyed peas, accompanied with plenty of hot black coffee, and peach pie for dessert. Tate rolled and smoked a quirly while they lingered over a final cup of coffee. Finally, their hunger satisfied, they paid the bill and headed for the Driftin’ Drover.

“It’s gonna be crowded in here, Tate,” Tim said. “Always is.” Sure enough, when they stepped inside, they had to shoulder their way through the crowd, then had to elbow a space at the bar. Three bartenders were tending to the customers’ needs. The nearest, a portly man who wore a huge walrus mustache, came over to them.

“What’ll it be, gents?” he asked.

“Beer.” Tim said. He almost had to shout to make himself heard over the noise of the crowd.

“Bourbon for me. Old Granddad’s if you’ve got it,” Tate requested.

“I do indeed,” the bartender answered. “You sure you’re old enough to handle it, kid? That’s a pretty potent red-eye. Packs a kick like a Missouri mule.”

“I can hold my whiskey all right,” Tate said.

“It’s your funeral,” the bartender replied, with a shrug. He hurried away, drew a mug of beer for Tim, then returned with that, a glass, and a bottle of Old Granddad’s. He filled Tate’s glass, then set the bottle on the shelf behind the bar.

“My name’s Bob,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready for more.”

“Tim.”

“I’m Tate. And we will.”

Tim had been in the Driftin’ Drover several times before, but Tate looked the place over while he worked on his drink. Like most saloons, the entire place smelled of tobacco smoke, sweat, and spilled liquor. It had a long, mirror-backed bar, several tables for games of chance; poker, faro, roulette, and chuck-a-luck. There was a small dance floor, where several couples were dancing to the tunes a derby-hatted player was pounding out on an out of tune piano. Coal-oil ceiling lamps, their light dimmed by the clouds of tobacco smoke swirling around them, illuminated the place. Instead of the provocative paintings of scantily-clad women so many saloons featured, the Driftin’ Drover, in keeping with its name, had several large scenes of cattle drives and roundups hanging from its walls. There were also two pictures of gunfights, as well as a Civil War battle scene. Tate didn’t recognize which battle it depicted, but, this being Texas, it showed the Confederates clearly besting their blue-clad Yankee opponents. And as always, percentage girls clad in low-cut dresses to show off their obvious charms circulated among the patrons, encouraging them to drink or gamble, or pay for a dance. Occasionally one of them would accompany a man upstairs, then disappear behind a closed door to one of the rooms arrayed along a balcony which ran the width of the building. Perhaps, Tate thought, he’d partake of the company of one of those ladies himself. He grinned in anticipation.

Tim finished his beer and Tate his whiskey. They signaled to Bob for another. He provided those, then once again hurried off to meet the demands of his other customers. Tim and Tate took their time over the drinks, unwinding and enjoying watching the crowd. They had just about finished their second drinks when two of the percentage girls approached them. One was a buxom red-head, who wore a green silk gown. The other was a brunette, whose extremely low-cut red silk dress clearly showed her bosom. A cut-glass pendant dangling from a thin chain nestled in her cleavage. She took Tate by the arm.

“You boys look lonely,” she said. “I’m Liz, and my friend here’s Dahlia. Would you like to buy us a drink?”

“No thanks,” Tim said. “I’m just gonna finish this beer, then turn in. It’s been a long day.”

“It’s not that late, cowboy,” Dahlia said, wrapping her arm around Tim’s waist. “If you don’t want to drink with us, how about a dance, or perhaps a card game. Or if you’d like something else, that could be arranged too.” She smiled and tilted her head toward the upstairs balcony.

“I can’t speak for my pardner here, but I’m not interested,” Tim said. “You see, I’m a married man.”

“Since when does that make a difference?” Dahlia asked, her voice petulant. A pout crossed her face.

“Mebbe to some men it doesn’t, but it does to me,” Tim said. “I love my wife, and it wouldn’t be right for me to go to bed with another woman. Besides, I’m way too old for you.”

“Too old? You sure don’t look too old. You positive I can’t change your mind?”

“I’m all of twenty-seven years old,” Tim answered. “And no, you can’t. Tell Bob to give you a drink, and I’ll pay for it, but that’s all.”

“Twenty-seven? Why you’re as old as Methuselah,” Dahlia said, sarcastically. “I guess I’ll have to settle for that drink, then find another man whose scruples ain’t as high and mighty as yours.” She flounced away, indignant.

“What about you, cowboy?” Liz asked Tate. “Are you married too? Or also too old?”

“I sure ain’t, on either count, honey,” Tate answered. “I ain’t married, don’t even have a gal, and I’m only nineteen. Does that answer your questions?”

“It sure does, cowboy.”

“Tate.”

“Tate. It sure does. But it doesn’t answer my other one. You lookin’ for some fun?”

“I sure am, honey. Tim, that all right with you?”

“It’s fine, Tate,” Tim answered. “Just don’t stay out too late, and don’t make a lotta noise when you come back to the room. I’ll probably be sleepin’, and wouldn’t appreciate bein’ roused.”

“All right, Tim. Liz, let’s go.”

Tim smiled as he watched Tate and the saloon girl work their way through the crowd and toward the stairs. He understood Tate’s need for some fun, and his desire to be with a woman. After all, he himself had been a young Ranger like Tate once. With the ever-present rigors and dangers of a Ranger’s life, a man had to unwind and let off steam every once in a while. Oftentimes a few drinks, perhaps some gambling, and a visit with a woman were the only ways. But now Tim was pledged to Melinda. Despite the stirring he felt in his groin at the undeniably attractive Dahlia’s invitation, he would never be unfaithful with her, or any other woman. Besides, when he returned home after weeks on the trail, it only made his and Melinda’s lovemaking that much sweeter, more passionate, more intense. Tim knew what he had at home, and wouldn’t chance spoiling that for anything, or anyone.

Tim’s reverie was interrupted by a woman’s scream, followed by a man’s threat. A bearded, drunken cowboy had grabbed Liz’s arm and yanked her away from Tate. He was pulling her toward the door.

“I said you’re comin’ with me, woman,” the cowboy said, with a curse. “That kid ain’t nowhere near hombre enough for you. I’m the kind of man you need.”

Tate stood with his hand just above the butt of the Smith and Wesson American he wore on his right hip. He flexed his fingers.

“Let go of the lady,” Tate ordered. “You heard what she said. She’s not goin’ with you.”

“Better leave us be, young’un, less’n you want a bullet in your guts,” the cowboy snarled. “I said she’s leavin’ with me, and I ain’t takin’ no for an answer. No snot-nosed kid’s gonna stop me, neither.” He shoved Liz aside. She fell to the floor, sobbing.

The crowd had parted, seeking cover from the potential paths of flying bullets wherever they could. Some had fled outside, others were hiding behind turned over tables or pillars. They had left Tim a clear shot at the cowboy’s ribs.

“Hold it right there, Mister!” Tim ordered. “Texas Ranger. Let the lady go and walk out of here before you make it worse for yourself.”

Tim’s hand hovered over the heavy Colt Peacemaker on his left hip. With his right, he slipped his badge out of his shirt pocket and pinned it to his vest. The threat of sudden and instant death was apparent in his cold blue eyes.

“I’m a Ranger too, Mister, in case you’d like to know,” Tate added.

The cowboy looked from Tate to Tim and back again, uncertainty in his eyes now. It was plain if he went for his gun and tried for Tate, Tim would kill him, even if he managed to down Tate. If he spun and tried for Tim, Tate would be sure to put a bullet through his ribs. He stood there, hand still ready to grab for his gun, quivering with anger and frustration.

“Aw, the devil with her. She ain’t worth it,” he cursed. He turned and started for the door. He was halfway there when he spun back, grabbing for his gun.

Tate fired, his bullet catching the cowboy in his left shoulder, spinning him around. Tim shot at the same time, his slug slamming into the man’s hip. With a cry of agony, the cowboy dropped to his face. Tim walked up to him and kicked his gun away, then rolled him onto his back.

“Someone get the doc,” he ordered.

“I’ll do it,” one of the spectators volunteered. He sprinted out the door.

“Reckon you… you done kilt me, Ranger,” the cowboy stammered.

“I don’t think so,” Tim said. “But you’re gonna be laid up for a spell, that’s for certain.”

“Reckon I was pretty… stupid… tryin’ to outgun two… Rangers.”

“I’d say so,” Tim agreed. “Next time you get drunk and think about doin’ somethin’ dumb, you might want to recollect what happened tonight. He glanced at Tate. “You all right, pard?”

“I’ll be okay,” Tate said.

The batwings swung open and a Fort Worth city marshal entered. He carried a shotgun, which he held at the ready.

“All right, don’t anybody move,” he ordered. He looked from Tate, to Tim, to the cowboy on the floor. “What happened here?”

Tate indicated Liz, who had come to her feet.

“That hombre there tried to take the lady out of the saloon, against her will. When I tried to stop him, he threatened to go for his gun. My pardner there took a hand. Hombre thought better of tryin’ to go up against two guns, but then changed his mind and drew on us. We both shot him.”

“That’s right, Marshal,” Liz said.

“You hush up for now, Liz,” the marshal ordered, then continued to Tate, “What’s your name, Mister?”

“Slocum. Tate Slocum. I’m a Texas Ranger.”

The marshal looked to Tim for confirmation.

“That right?”

“That’s right, Marshal. I’m Ranger Tim Bannon. Tate’s my ridin’ pard. We’re on our way to Sierra Blanca. Have an overnight layover waitin’ for tomorrow’s El Paso bound train, so we thought we’d kill some time and relax with a couple of drinks. Things happened just like Tate said.”

“Marshal Al Colton. Reckon you two are in the clear.” He glanced at the downed cowboy, who had now passed out from pain and loss of blood. “Anybody happen to know his name?”

“He’s Frank Cook, from the Diamond T,” someone answered.

“Good. Couple of you help me carry this man to Doc Patterson’s,” Colton ordered.

“I’m right here, Al.” A middle-aged man, who wore thick spectacles over his hazel eyes, hurried in. He carried a medical bag. He knelt alongside Cook for a cursory examination.

“He’ll live, but he’s going to be crippled up for quite some time. In fact, he may never be able to use that shoulder again. Let’s get him to my office so I can get to work on him.”

The wounded cowboy was carried out, the blood-soaked sawdust swept away, and business at the Driftin’ Drover soon returned to normal.

“Tate, I’m callin’ it a night,” Tim said. “You comin’ along?”

Liz had her arm wrapped around Tate’s waist.

“If it’s all the same to you, Tim, I’d like to finish my plans with Liz here.”

“That’s right, Ranger,” Liz added. “I’d bet Tate saved my life. The least I can do is thank him properly.”

“And I’ll reckon you know how to do just that,” Tim said, with a chuckle. “All right, Tate. I’ll see you in the morning. Like I said before, just don’t disturb me when you come in.”

“I won’t,” Tate promised. He and Liz headed up the stairs, while Tim went back to the hotel. Reaching his room, he pulled off his boots, socks, gunbelt, vest, bandanna, and Stetson and placed them on a chair alongside the bed. He knelt and said his evening prayers, then slid under the blankets.

This trip didn’t start out all that good, he thought. Sure hope things take a turn for the better. Within minutes, he was sound asleep.

Tate returned a few hours later. Unfortunately for Tim, he didn’t keep his promise to come back quietly. He stumbled through the door, sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots and tossed them across the room. They slammed into the wall with a thud.

“Hold it down Tate, will ya? Tim complained.

“Sorry, Tim.” Tate yanked off his gunbelt and dropped it to the floor. He pulled back the covers, lay down, then pulled them up to his chin.

“Tim?”

“Yeah, Tate?”

“Thanks for backin’ my play back there in the saloon. I’m not sure I could’ve outdrawn that cowboy. And thanks for callin’ me your pard.”

“You are my pard, leastwise for this job,” Tim answered, mumbling. “Don’t worry about it. Just lemme get back to sleep.”

“All right, Tim. Nonetheless, I’m obliged.”

Tate soon fell asleep, but then began snoring, his snores reverberating through the small room like a buzz saw. He rolled onto his stomach, and his arm flopped across Tim’s back. Tim shoved an elbow hard into his ribs.

“Ow!” Tate yelped. “What was that for?”

“Just move over and stick to your own side of the bed,” Tim ordered. “Don’t get any ideas about hoggin’ all the covers, either.”

“All right, all right,” Tate muttered. He rolled onto his back and went back to sleep. His snores resumed.

Great, Tim thought. Just what I didn’t need, a pardner who snores like a longhorn bull chasin’ a heifer. With a groan, he pulled his pillow over his head in a vain attempt to drown out the racket.

***

Even though they had the opportunity to sleep in, Tim, as always, was awake with the sunrise. Alongside him, Tate lay sprawled face-down on his side of the bed. Sometime during the early morning his snores had finally subsided. Tim lay there for an hour, saying his morning prayers and thinking about the job ahead. He then got up, pulled off his shirt, and walked over to the bureau, where a pitcher of water and a basin waited. He poured some water into the basin, ducked his head into it to soak his hair, then picked up a washcloth and bar of yellow soap to wash his face, neck, and upper torso. He shivered as he washed in the poorly heated room. Not bothering to shave, he ran a rough towel over his face and body to dry off, then headed back to the bed, picked up his shirt, and shrugged into it. He finished redressing, then shook Tate’s shoulder.

“Huh? What?” Tate mumbled.

“Rise and shine, pardner,” Tim said. “Daylight’s a-wastin’. Time to get up, check on our horses, and grab some chuck before our train comes.” He shook Tate again.

“All right, all right.” Tate moaned and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. He sat there for a minute, bleary-eyed. Dark whiskers stubbled his jaw. It was clear he’d had a drink or two too many. He pulled himself to his feet, yawned and stretched, then yanked off his shirt and tossed it on the bed. He scratched his belly and chest, then stumbled over to the wash basin. Like Tim, he gave himself a rudimentary washing and then redressed.

“You’re lookin’ a mite rough there, Tate,” Tim said. “Hope it was worth it.”

“It purely was,” Tate answered. “Especially that Liz. She’s some gal.”

“And you’ll meet at least a half a dozen more like her before this trip is over,” Tim said. “C’mon, let’s get goin’.”

Shouldering their saddlebags, they headed downstairs to the front desk to turn in their keys. After that they went to the livery stable, where Rowdy and Buddy were just finishing their morning oats. Rowdy picked up his head and whinnied loudly when he spotted Tim approaching.

“All right, I’ve got your doggone candy,” Tim scolded, in jest. He pulled two peppermints from his pockets, handed one to Tate for his horse, then gave Rowdy his treat.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” he assured the paint. “Gonna get some breakfast for myself, then it’ll be time to load you up.”

There was a small café across the street from the livery stable. Tim and Tate went there and downed a large breakfast of ham, eggs, and fried potatoes, as always washed down with cups of strong black coffee. Once they were finished and paid their bill, they went back to the stable, retrieved their horses, and walked the short distance to the Texas and Pacific station. They tied the mounts to a hitch rail out front, then headed inside to pick up their tickets.

“Good morning, Rangers,” the clerk behind the ticket window said, from behind its thick iron grate. “Your train’s right on schedule. Should be pullin’ in shortly. In the meantime, there’s a cattle car for your horses pulled up to the freight platform, if you’d like to load them now.”

“Reckon we might as well,” Tim said. “That’ll get them settled before we pull out.”

“Excellent. I’ll call George for you.”

The agent summoned a porter, who in turn went and located a freight handler, who in turn led the Rangers and their horses to the platform. A cattle car sat there, door open and ramp already in place. Hay was piled in one corner, and two buckets for water hung from the slats. The Rangers’ gear was also already in the car, set neatly at one end.

“The car’s all ready for your horses, Rangers,” the brakeman said.

“Thanks,” Tim answered. Rowdy and Buddy were led inside, their halters and lead ropes removed. Each was given a peppermint and a pat on the nose, then fell to munching on hay. Once Tim and Tate left the car, the ramp was removed, the door shut and latched.

“Your train’s comin’ now,” the brakeman said, as the chuffing of an approaching locomotive drifted through the air. A few minutes later, with the clanking of couplers and the release of steam, the train pulled into the station and rolled to a stop. Passengers whose destination was Fort Worth descended from the coaches, while others who would be departing for points west waited to load. The engine was serviced, coal added to the tender and the tank topped off with water. The crew members were changed, and wheels, brakes, and bearings checked. Forty-five minutes later, the train was ready to roll westward once again.

Tim and Tate had taken seats in the middle passenger coach. They were just settling in when the train backed up to Rowdy and Buddy’s cattle car. When it clanked to a stop a man, well-dressed in an expensive businessman’s suit, summoned the conductor over.

“Yes, Mr. Braddock?” the conductor asked. The expression on his face clearly indicated he was already tired of dealing with this insufferable individual.

“What’s the holdup now, Conductor?” Braddock demanded. He opened the expensive gold turnip watch which dangled from a thick gold chain draped across his substantial paunch and glanced at it. “You are well aware I need to be in El Paso as quickly as possible. I was told this railroad ran efficiently, yet now we are fifteen minutes late. And instead of moving onward we are going backwards, and have now stopped yet again. I demand an explanation.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Braddock,” the conductor answered. “However, there are two Texas Rangers who have just boarded this train. They are on their way to Sierra Blanca. Their horses are in the car we just backed up to. Once the car is coupled, we will be on our way. It will only be a matter of a few minutes, no more, I assure you.”

“What? This train is being delayed for horses?” Braddock shouted. “That’s preposterous. And it’s unacceptable. It’s enough of an indignity that this train has no Pullman car, as I was promised, so I have to ride in this coach with all these… these ruffians. This riffraff! And now I am to be detained even further? That is totally inexcusable. I insist, no, I demand this train get underway, right now. Immediately! Forget those horses! And the president of this railroad will be hearing from me about this… this farce. This… this travesty!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Braddock,” the conductor said. “However, we have to do whatever the Rangers ask. They are on legal business for the State of Texas. We can’t leave without their horses. Please, be patient. We’ll only be here a short while longer. As far as your berth in a Pullman, I’ve already explained to you, the Pullman car attached to this train developed a hotbox. We had to leave it behind in Shreveport. Otherwise the wheel truck or its bearings would have overheated and failed, leading to a derailment. There were no other Pullmans available to replace it. I’ve already apologized to you for that, more than once in fact. And this train will move when the car carrying the Rangers’ horses is coupled and ready to roll. Not a moment sooner.”

“You’ll move this train, and right now!” Braddock insisted. “I’m a friend of the Governor. I’ll have your job, and I’ll do my best to see the Texas and Pacific receives no further franchises in this state!”

Tim rose from his seat and joined the conductor. His badge was in plain sight on his vest.

“Conductor, let me handle this,” he said.

“With pleasure, Ranger,” the trainman answered.

Braddock looked at Tim and started to say something, but hesitated under the glare of the angry Ranger’s cold blue eyes.

“Mister,” Tim said. “You want to complain to the Governor, go right ahead. But I’ll tell you right now, he’s not gonna waste his time listenin’ to an overstuffed windbag like you. This train’ll be movin’ in a couple of minutes. Until it does, you’re gonna sit there nice and quiet-like. And you’re gonna keep still all the way to El Paso. If me or my pardner hear one peep out of you between here and Sierra Blanca, we’ll have you thrown off this train on the spot. And I don’t need to tell you if we’re not near a town there’s an awful lot of empty territory, full of rattlers, coyotes, outlaws, and even some renegade Indians you’d have to cross to reach civilization. So I’d advise you just sit there and keep your mouth shut.”

Braddock regained some of his bluster.

“Ranger, obviously you don’t know who I am. My name is Matthias T. Braddock. I have business interests all over this state, in fact all over the West. Those are much more important than any piddling concern of yours. As far as speaking to the governor, I fully intend to do so. Now I’ll be demanding your resignation as well. I will have your badge, Ranger, rest assured.”

“You want my badge, you can have it,” Tim snapped. “My name’s Bannon. Timothy Bannon. My commanding officer is Captain Nathaniel Strong, and my pard back there is Tate Slocum. You can have his badge too. But they won’t do you much good with a bullet hole blown clean through your skull.” He tapped the butt of his Colt for emphasis.

“What? Are you threatening me, Ranger?” Braddock spluttered.

“I didn’t hear a threat. Just a statement of fact of what could occur,” Tim replied. “We’re heading into mighty dangerous territory, and anything could happen. In fact, I believe I heard you use the word ‘holdup’. Not a smart thing to say on a train. One of those could happen anytime. Plenty of robbers out there stoppin’ trains to rob the express cars and passengers all the time. It’d be a real pity if you accidentally caught a bullet durin’ a robbery. Now, as far as what I said, did you hear any threat, Conductor?”

“I sure didn’t, Ranger,” the trainman answered. “Merely a warning to be careful, because as you say, we’re heading into some plenty rough territory.”

“I didn’t hear a threat either,” a derby-hatted drummer spoke up from across the aisle. “Only a promise. Better listen to the Ranger, Braddock. He knows what he’s talkin’ about. Even if he is just a ruffian.”

Braddock opened his mouth to form a retort, then snapped it shut. He turned and stared out the window.

“Reckon that’s settled then,” the conductor said. “Thanks, Ranger.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tim said. He returned to his seat, to find Tate consumed with mirth.

“You sure showed that big blowhard,” he said, laughing. “Thought he was gonna have apoplexy.”

“Just part of the job, Tate,” Tim answered. He settled back in his seat as the train lurched into motion.

***

With the Texas and Pacific’s tracks, connecting to the Southern Pacific at Sierra Blanca, being part of the southern transcontinental railroad route across the United States, this train had a few more amenities than the average passenger train. Every coach had two enclosed lavatories, one each for men and women, and a coal stove at either end of the cars kept them comfortably warm despite the chill outside, so most passengers had shed their heavy coats and gloves. There was a smoking car for gentlemen travelers, and even a dining car. And as Braddock had said, ordinarily there was a Pullman Company sleeping car attached to the train. Those sleepers were considered the height of luxury for travel by rail, with their individual berths, curtained for privacy, and their Negro porters. Most of those porters were former house slaves, experienced in service, who were now well-paid to cater to the needs of the Pullman Company’s patrons, for in fact the railroads didn’t own any Pullmans. The Pullman Company did, and paid the railroads to couple their cars to the trains. Customers paid Pullman, not the railroad, for their space in a sleeper. While the train rolled across the Texas prairie, Tim and Tate joined some of their fellow passengers in the smoking car for a game of poker. By the time they retired for the evening, Tim had won most of the hands, and had raked in several large pots.

“Boy howdy, pard,” Tate said, after they returned to their seats, “I’ve always heard you were sort of a choir boy. ‘Bannon? He ain’t much fun. Don’t chase women, hardly ever cusses, don’t smoke, don’t drink anything stronger than beer.’ That’s what most of the other Rangers say about you. Never knew you were much of a card player, but you sure play one heckuva mean game of poker. I’ve never seen anyone bluff as good as you.”

“I’m sure no saint, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” Tim said. “And I’ve gotta confess, I do enjoy a good game of cards. Right now though, it’s high time for some shut-eye. See you in the morning, pardner.”

“One question first, Tim. You really wouldn’t have shot Braddock, would you?”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out,” Tim answered. He lowered his voice. “Of course not. You know that, and I know that, but Braddock doesn’t, and that’s all that matters. Now good night.”

Tim stretched out his legs, tilted his Stetson over his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Tate did the same. From under his hat, Tim studied his young partner.

Tate was nineteen, and barely looked that. He had light brown hair, bleached even lighter by the sun where it wasn’t covered by his hat, and light brown eyes to match, but the whiskers now stubbling his face and jaw were a much deeper shade of brown. He stood about five foot eight and weighed about one fifty, Tim would guess. While he appeared a bit on the lanky side, all of those one hundred fifty pounds were muscle and sinew. Until the gunfight back in Fort Worth, Tim hadn’t seen Tate in action, but he would be willing to bet the young Ranger was more than capable with both the Smith and Wesson American he wore on his right hip as well as his fists. He’d certainly shown he knew how to use a six-gun during the gunfight with the drunken cowboy back in Fort Worth. Tate had also shown during that incident he wasn’t a man to back down, nor one to be caught settin’. Plenty of rookie lawmen would have let down their guard when a man started for the door like the cowboy had, which would prove to be a fatal mistake. Tate hadn’t, so he was ready when the cowboy yanked his gun to shoot the young Ranger down. He was most likely handy with rifle and knife, too. And Tim was certain he could ride. Tate certainly knew his horseflesh. Buddy, his grulla gelding, had plenty of speed and bottom. Tim was certain the grulla could keep up with Rowdy if need be, at least for some distance. Right now Tate was dressed in ordinary cowboy garb similar to that Tim wore, a faded checked shirt, leather vest, worn denims, and scuffed boots. A tag dangled from the packet of Bull Durham Tate carried in his vest pocket. A bright red bandanna was looped around his neck, and a battered, once-gray but now dirt and sweat-stained Stetson covered his head. In contrast to Tim, like most of the Rangers Tate wore no badge. Tim was one of the few who wore the emblem which was becoming more and more a symbol of the Rangers, a silver star on silver circle badge, carved from a Mexican cinco peso coin. All in all, Tim had the feeling Tate would become a fine lawman, with just a little more experience. A man to ride the river with, anytime and anywhere.

As the train continued its westward journey, Tim settled more deeply into his seat. He sighed, for he had mixed feelings about the railroads. The Rangers were using them more and more to get from one end to another of the Lone Star State’s vast expanses far more quickly than could ever be possible on horseback or by stagecoach. In fact, quite a few of the Rangers were no longer using their own horses on a distant assignment, but would take the train to their destination, then rent or borrow a horse. Tim wasn’t one of those. He wanted a mount under him he knew he could depend on, both for traveling and in a running gun battle. Or if you were jumped and outnumbered by a bunch of men determined to kill you, if you needed a horse to escape a group of pursuers, such as a band of renegade Comanches, you wanted a horse that had the speed, stamina, and sure-footedness to outrun those Indians or outlaws. You sure couldn’t depend on a livery stable mount or borrowed horse under those circumstances. You needed a horse you had an absolute bond and trust with, like Tim did with Rowdy. However, Tim realized if he had to make this run from Austin to El Paso on Rowdy, it would take him at least ten days, and that would be pushing his horse hard, in fact to Rowdy’s limits. It would more likely take him two weeks or a bit more. Yet by taking the train, which could travel at forty miles an hour in spots, the same trip would be made in twenty-four hours, or one overnight, give or take. If it weren’t for the necessity of stopping for fuel, water, and to take on and discharge passengers and change crew members, the journey could be made in less than eighteen. Tim was certain that, with Christmas just around the corner, Captain Strong wouldn’t have forced this assignment on him if the train hadn’t been available.

Still, despite the railroad’s convenience and speed, Tim would much rather be traveling by horseback. There was a lot to be said for being out in the wide open spaces, just a man and his horse, perhaps a companion or two for company. The air would be fresh and pure, so invigorating it made a man glad to be alive. Out there, you could almost breathe in the freedom and taste it, and sense all the wonders of God’s creation. The train, on the other hand, was cramped, noisy, and dirty. The tracks scarred the land wherever they were laid; locomotives fouled the air with smoke and soot and spewed cinders everywhere. More than one destructive fire had been started by sparks from a train, brush fires that would sweep across the land, destroying everything in their path, or fires that could burn down an entire settlement. No, progress came with a heavy price.

However, Tim mused, as he looked out the window at the darkened, frosty landscape, with the temperatures hovering around freezing or below, right now it was much more comfortable being curled up in a passenger coach, kept cozy by a stove glowing dull red from the fire inside. It sure beat being huddled in the saddle all day, your feet and hands numbed from the cold, the wind biting at your cheeks. Then at night you’d have to try to build a fire, if there was enough dead wood, buffalo or cow chips available, to ward off some of the cold. Even if the fire lasted all night, you still ended up shivering under your blankets, getting very little sleep. And likely as not when you woke up a coating of frost would be covering your blankets.

“No,” Tim whispered. “I reckon I’m glad for this here contraption.” Lulled by the steady, rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the rails and the rocking of the coach, he drifted off to sleep.