5

 

A slight weather disturbance had left a thin coating of snow on the ground overnight, which sparkled like diamonds under the early morning sun. The horses stamped impatiently as the men saddled and bridled them, the cold, crisp air making them eager to run. The warm breath from both men and horses’ nostrils turned to steam, coating the horses’ muzzles, Boyd’s beard, and the several days’ growth of whiskers stubbling Tim and Tate’s faces and jaws with frost. Saddle leather, stiffened by the cold, creaked as the men saddled up and mounted. The jingling of spurs and the rattling of bits rang through the air as the quartet of lawmen rode out of Sierra Blanca, headed first for Earl Tuttle’s Diamond T, then Diego Santos’ D Cross S. Like the others, Rick Lewis was also well mounted, on a buckskin gelding he called George.

“It’s pretty frigid now, but it’ll warm up considerable before long,” Boyd noted. “Sierra Blanca sits at an elevation of just over forty-five hundred feet. One thing about this high desert territory, the temperature can swing thirty or forty degrees in a day, sometimes more. This snow’ll be gone before noon.”

They held their horses to a walk for a mile, letting them buck to work out the kinks and burn off some of their edge, then allowed them to gallop for a mile or so, until they wore off a good bit of their excess energy and gladly settled to a steady lope.

“I ain’t never been in this part of Texas before,” Tate said. “Sure is pretty.”

“You’ll see a lot of Texas as a Ranger,” Tim answered. In his career as a Ranger, he had ridden most of the Lone Star State, and never ceased to be amazed at its vastness and the variety of its landscape. Texas had more changes in climate, more differences in its geography than most countries. Tim had been to the Gulf Coast, with its sandy beaches, palm trees, lush vegetation, and salt-tanged air, then north to the level, almost featureless plains of the Panhandle and the Llano Estacado or Staked Plain, so named because the early Spanish padres, in their quest to bring the Faith to new lands, had to drive stakes into the ground along their route to avoid becoming hopelessly lost, so devoid of landmarks was the region. Tim had seen the beauty of the Hill Country north and west of San Antonio in the spring when the bluebonnets were in bloom, and the rugged fastnesses of the Guadalupe Mountains, as well as the forbidding canyonlands of the Big Bend. Now, here in far West Texas, he and his companions were riding through high, semi-desert land, mainly a level to rolling plain, cut by dry washes, gullies, and arroyos, interspersed with jagged mountains and mesas. The vegetation was sparse and tough, suited to the tough conditions of the region. Much of it was thorny; sagebrush, mesquite, various types of cactus, and an occasional juniper or other small tree able to tolerate the dry climate. In some of the higher mountains there would be pines and firs, but down here dryland plants ruled. To the southwest, between Sierra Blanca and the Rio Grande, the Quitman Mountains formed an almost impenetrable barrier. Just west of town was Sierra Blanca Mountain, from which the settlement had taken its name.

“Cold’s got the horses really full of themselves. At this pace we’ll be at the Diamond T in little more’n an hour,” Boyd said. “Dunno what kind of a welcome we’ll get. Earl’s been pretty jumpy since all this started.”

They rode on mostly in silence. Tim, as was his habit from years as a Ranger, studied the land carefully as they went along, not only to note any landmarks, any particular reason a person might want to keep a certain piece of land for his own, but also to look for any spots where an outlaw might lie in wait, ready to ambush and rob any unsuspecting passerby, or gun down a pursuing lawman who got careless. He noted with satisfaction that Tate did the same. The boy would need to develop all the senses a Ranger had to use to survive, both the land and the renegades who frequented it. The trail climbed slightly but steadily as they neared their destination.

“That’s the gate to the Diamond T just ahead,” Boyd announced as they rounded the base of a low mesa. He pointed out a wooden archway across the trail, with a diamond symbol and a capital T formed out of cottonwood branches. “We’ll be ridin’ up to the house soon. I reckon Earl will be in. Not much work to do around a ranch this time of year, except for repairs and making sure the cows stay fed and drive ‘em to shelter in a canyon if the weather turns real bad.”

“It’s about time,” Tate muttered. “I’m freezin’. Can’t hardly feel my feet. Hope there’s some coffee on the stove.”

“There will be,” Boyd assured him. “Most likely biscuits keepin’ warm too. Amy, that’s Mrs. Tuttle, is a fine cook.”

Despite being bundled in heavy sheepskin coats, flannel shirts, and denims, with long woolen underwear beneath, their bandannas pulled up over their noses, mouths, and ears, and two pairs of socks on their feet, all the men were feeling the biting cold. It would indeed be pleasant to get into some shelter and warm up with a cup of hot coffee.

When they drew nearer to the gate, they could see a sentry standing guard. He held a rifle across his chest, but at the riders’ approach he pointed it at them and called out a challenge.

“Hold it right there, less’n you want a bullet right between your eyes. Who are you, and what’s your business here?”

“Ol’ Earl must be gettin’ even jumpier than I realized, if he’s set a guard,” Boyd said to his companions. “That’s Mel Harrington, his chief wrangler. Man’s a real good shot with a long gun.”

“I said state your business. If you ain’t got any reason to be on Diamond T land, you’d best keep on ridin’,” the sentry ordered. Louder, Boyd called back to him.

“It’s Sheriff Little, Mel, along with Deputy Lewis. Got a couple of Texas Rangers with us. They want to talk with your boss for a spell.”

Harrington knew the sheriff’s voice.

“All right, Sheriff, ride on in. Slow and easy. Keep your hands away from your guns, all of you.”

“Will do.” Little put his horse into a walk, the others following. Harrington apologized when they reached him.

“Sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t recognize you bundled up as you are. Boss is up at the house. Go right ahead.”

“I would’ve thought you’d know my horse, Mel, bein’ as you’re a wrangler and all,” Little said.

“There’s more’n one golden-hided cayuse in Texas, Sheriff,” Harrington answered.

“I reckon you’re right at that,” Little answered, grinning. “We’ll see you on the way out.”

“Later, Sheriff.” Harrington resumed his post while the lawmen continued on. A few minutes later they reined up in front of the Diamond T ranch house, a rambling structure of cypress logs, no doubt freighted in at great expense. They dismounted and tied their horses to the porch rail. When they climbed the stairs, the door opened. The owner of the Diamond T stood there, his hand on the butt of the six-gun he wore.

“Sheriff Little. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Earl Tuttle asked. He was a big man in his mid-fifties, barrel-chested and lantern jawed, with steel-gray eyes and hair that had faded from black to the same color.

“Got a couple of Texas Rangers want to talk with you, Earl,” Boyd answered. “Mind if we come on in outta the cold?”

Little shrugged. “I reckon not. C’mon in and set a spell. We’ll go down to my office. Amy!”

“Yes, Earl?”

“We’ve got company. Sheriff Little, Deputy Lewis, and a pair of Texas Rangers. You mind bringin’ us some coffee?”

“Not at all.”

Tuttle led the lawmen down a long hallway and into a room decorated with Indian artifacts and Navajo rugs. “Find yourselves a chair and shed those coats,” he said. “Any of you care for a cigar, or mebbe some whiskey to warm you up? Got a fine Chambord brandy here you might want to sample. It’ll chase the chill from your bones.”

“I’ll take both,” Boyd said.

“Just a brandy for me, thanks,” Rick answered.

“None for me, thanks,” Tim said. “Coffee’ll do just fine.”

“I’ll try both also,” Tate said.

“Good.”

Tuttle took a decanter and four glasses from a side table, filled the glasses half-full, and passed three of them to Boyd, Rick, and Tate. He picked up a humidor from his desk, opened it, and offered cigars to the sheriff and young Ranger. After those were lit, he settled behind his desk.

“Gentlemen, now I’m ready to ask why you are here, not that I haven’t already figured that out. I assume it’s about the trouble between the Diamond T and the D Cross S.”

“That’s right, Mr. Tuttle,” Tim said. “I’m Tim Bannon, and my pard here is Tate Slocum.”

Tate nodded at the rancher. “Mighty fine liquor and cigar. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying them,” Tuttle said. “But let’s get back to the business at hand.”

“All right,” Tim said. “We’re here at Sheriff Little’s request. He wants to put an end to this situation before it explodes into a full blown range war. No one needs that. We’re here to talk with you and then we’re heading to meet with Diego Santos.”

“There’s no need to talk with that Mexican,” Tuttle said. “He’s the one trying to grab off my land.”

“I’m certain he’ll say the same thing about you, Mr. Tuttle, that you’re trying to steal his land,” Tim replied. “As far as him bein’ Mexican, his family’s been here a lot longer’n any of us. He’s as much a Texan as you are, mebbe more so.”

Tuttle started to reply, but was interrupted when his wife came in. Amy Tuttle was tall, willowy, with green eyes, and her blonde hair was just touched with gray. For a woman in her early fifties she was still a very attractive lady. She carried a tray which held a steaming coffee pot, several cups, and a pile of hot, sugar-dusted doughnuts.

The lawmen all stood up.

“Please, don’t get up,” she said. “I’m sorry to break in. I have your coffee, along with some doughnuts I just finished frying. I’ll just leave them here for you.”

She placed the tray on the table.

“Thank you, Amy,” Tuttle said. “Would you do me a favor?”

“I’ll try. What is it?”

“Send the kids in, will you? And then come back yourself.”

“All right, Earl.”

“Now, where were we?” he said, after Amy departed.

“You were sayin’ Santos is tryin’ to steal your land,” Tim said.

“That’s right. This all started over the creek last year. That water’s mine. It flowed onto Diamond T range first. Then Santos diverted it onto his land.”

“That’s not what Sheriff Little says,” Tim replied. “He tells me Mother Nature keeps changin’ the course of the creek.”

“With Santos’ help. Boyd, I’m surprised at you, stickin’ up for Santos.”

“I’m not sidin’ with either of you,” Boyd answered. “Just giving the Rangers the facts as I see ‘em.”

“That’s right,” Tim confirmed. “Mr. Tuttle, I’m not here to take your side, or Santos’. As far as hashing over what I’ve already learned from Sheriff Little yet again, there’s no point in that. I’m gonna talk to you, then Santos, and do some investigatin’ of my own. That will take me only a couple of days. Once I’m finished, then I’ll make some recommendations. It’ll be up to you and Santos whether you want to take ‘em. But I promise you, they will be fair.”

“What if I don’t take ‘em, or Santos doesn’t?”

“That’s your prerogative,” Tim said. “But if your fightin’ leads to a range war, or trouble between Anglos and Mexicans, there’ll be a lot of bloodshed on both sides, which means nobody wins. And I’ve got a personal stake in this. I was away from home the last two Christmases, and I promised my wife and son I’d be with ‘em for Christmas this year, no matter what. I won’t take it kindly if you or Santos don’t listen to reason, so I end up missin’ Christmas with my family again. And as long as Tate and I are here, if any more trouble is stirred up, by you and your men or Santos and his, don’t matter to me which, I’ll toss whoever’s behind it in jail for a long spell. You can rest assured of that.”

Amy knocked softly on the door frame.

“Earl. The children and I are here.”

“C’mon in, honey.”

Amy entered, trailed by three children, identical twin boys and a girl. The boys, in their early twenties, looked exactly like their father, with the same husky build and gray eyes. Only their hair was different, a light sandy color. They were dressed in cowboy garb, but unlike many twins not alike. One had on a green shirt and butternut pants, the other a red checked shirt and denims. The girl was a couple of years younger, blonde and slim like her mother, only her eyes were a light blue.

“Rangers, my sons David and Duane. If you haven’t already figured it out, they’re twins. And my daughter, Honoria. Kids, Texas Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum. You already know Sheriff Little and Deputy Lewis.”

The youngsters and lawmen exchanged greetings.

“Rangers, I brought my kids in here for a reason,” Tuttle said. “I built this place with hard work, a lot of sweat, and even a little blood. Some tears too, for that matter. My folks are buried under a cottonwood back yonder. I intend for me’n Amy to be buried next to ‘em when our time comes. This ranch will belong to my kids, and their kids after that. No one is gonna take it from me. No one.”

“We don’t intend for anyone to take your land from you, Mr. Tuttle,” Tim said. “Nor do we intend to allow anyone to take Diego Santos’ land from him. I understand you both used to be friends, ran your cattle together, fought side by side against rustlers and Comanches, drank together, played together.”

“That was before he tried to steal my water,” Tuttle said.

“Which remains to be seen,” Tim said. “But it seems pretty silly to me that two grown men who have been friends and neighbors for years can’t bury the hatchet and become friends again.”

“That’s what I’ve tried to tell Earl,” Amy said. “But no, not my husband… the stubborn fool. And Diego Santos is just as bad.”

“Hush, Amy.”

“I will not hush. I miss visiting with Consuela. I’m also tired of all this fighting. What happens if someone decides to hurt you, Earl, or one of the children?”

“Duane and I can take care of ourselves, Ma,” David said.

“Not if someone puts an ambush bullet in your back, son,” Tim answered. “That’s my point, Mr. Tuttle. If this fight continues, the only thing which will come out of it is a lot of heartache and grief. Like I said, no one wins in a range war, except the devil himself. We’re gonna take our leave now. We’re headed to talk to Santos. I’ll be in touch in a couple of days. In the meantime, if I get even a whiff of more trouble, I’ll come down on whoever causes it hard… real hard. Is that clear?”

 

“You’ve made your point, Ranger,” Tuttle answered. “But let me tell you, I’m not gonna just sit still while someone tries to take my land.”

“If anyone does, just let me or my pardner or the sheriff know,” Tim answered. “This is the Rangers’ problem now. Best thing you can do is let us handle it.”

“Listen to him, Earl. Please,” Amy asked.

“All right. I’ll go along for now. But you’d best get Santos straightened out, Ranger. Right quick.”

“Like I said, I intend to be home for Christmas,” Tim said. “I’ll talk with you again soon. Meantime, don’t do anythin’ foolish.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Amy said.

“Good,” Tim answered. He stood up. “Mr. Tuttle, Mrs. Tuttle, Duane, David, Honoria. Nice meetin’ y’all. Thanks for the drinks and doughnuts. They were real tasty, Mrs. Tuttle. Give me the time I ask, and this will all be settled. Tate, Boyd, Rick, c’mon. Let’s go.”

“Should’ve warned you Earl Tuttle’s a real stubborn man, Tim,” Boyd said, as they rode away from the Diamond T. “He’s not one to listen to reason. Don’t put much store in what Amy said, either. Tuttle’s not the kind of man to let his wife boss him around.”

“He’s about what I expected,” Tim said. “Tuttle’s a typical Texan. It takes a tough, stubborn hombre to build a place like he’s got and then hold onto it. I’d imagine Santos is pretty much the same.”

“Boy howdy, you’ve got that right,” Lewis said. “He’s real thick-headed.”

“Don’t matter. He and Tuttle are both about to find out I can be just as stubborn. Which way to the D Cross S?”

“We can take the trail around, or cut across country,” Little answered. “That’ll save us a few miles.”

“Then cross-country it is,” Tim answered. “Lead the way.”

***

 

The trip to the D Cross S was through rugged, brush-choked rangeland, cut by arroyos and washes. However, the headquarters of the D Cross S itself was in a small glade. The main house was a sprawling adobe structure with a red tile roof. An arched veranda surrounded the building on all four sides. The walls were thick and the windows up high and small. The structure was built to be warmer in winter and cooler in summer… and for defense against any marauders. Anyone trying to raid the D Cross S would find breaching those thick walls an almost insurmountable task. Unlike at the Diamond T, no one challenged the lawmen as they rode up, reined in, and dismounted. They tied their horses to the rail out front, then Sheriff Little knocked on the thick oak door. A moment later it was answered by a pretty young woman, her olive complexion, raven-black hair, and dark eyes making her Spanish blood obvious.

“Sheriff Little. Buenas dias,” she said. “Is my father expecting you?”

“No, he’s not, Maria,” Boyd answered. “But we do need to speak with him if he’s in. These are Texas Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum. You already know Rick.”

“My father is here, and of course he will see you,” Maria answered. “Follow me.”

She led them into a large parlor, furnished with sofas and chairs of rich leather. Spanish tapestries hung from the walls, and Aztec pottery was placed around the room. A fire blazed in the huge fireplace, which took up almost a quarter of one wall.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Maria urged. “Take off your coats. I will get my father.”

The men did as she requested, shedding their heavy coats and taking seats. A moment later, Maria reappeared.

“Gentlemen, this is my father, Diego Santos. Father, Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum.”

“Rangers, welcome to my home,” Santos said. “Mi casa su casa, as they say in Mexico. Please, make yourselves comfortable. In fact, we were about to have our noonday meal. You will join us, of course.”

“Thank you, Senor,” Tim said. “However, this is a business visit, not a social call.” He was a bit taken aback by Santos’ appearance. True, the man had the bloodline of old Spain apparent in his height, stately bearing, and dark features. However, unlike Tim had expected, he was not dressed like a Mexican vaquero. He was in typical cowboy clothes, and the hat he wore was not a high-crowned, broad-brimmed sombrero, but a well-worn, battered brown Stetson. Even the Spanish accent in his speech was barely discernible, and despite his formality in fact Santos spoke mostly in the familiar west Texas drawl.

“I knew it must be,” Santos said. “I’m certain you’re here about the trouble I have been having with Earl Tuttle. Nevertheless, that is no reason for me to be inhospitable. All of you will eat with us, then afterwards we can talk over drinks and cigars.”

“I am pretty hungry, Tim,” Tate said.

“Me too,” Rick added. “My belly’s been growlin’ for an hour now. Thinks my throat’s been cut.”

“All right,” Tim said. “I could stand a bite too. We’ll eat.”

“Fine,” Santos said. “Maria, if you would take our guests to the dining room?”

“Of course, father. Gentlemen, this way.”

Maria led them down a hallway to a spacious dining room. The furniture it held was all heavy dark wood, intricately carved. On top of a long sideboard were several bottles of liquor. The table was already set with fine china. In contrast to the dark furnishings were colorful striped napkins and placemats.

“Why don’t you men take the four chairs on the right near the head of the table?” Maria suggested. “My family will take the ones opposite, so we can all converse during the meal.”

“All right,” Tim agreed. He and his companions took their seats. A few moments later, Santos returned, along with the rest of his family.

“Don’t bother to get up,” he said. “Rangers, this is my wife Consuela, my sons Miguel and Esteban, and my other daughter Francesca. You’ve already met Maria, of course. Consuela, children, Texas Rangers Tim Bannon and his partner, Tate Slocum. And of course Sheriff Little and Deputy Lewis.”

Consuela Santos and the rest of her children all had the same Spanish features as Maria and Diego. The Santos family and the lawmen exchanged greetings. Once everyone was seated, Consuela picked up and rang a small silver bell. An elderly Mexican woman appeared at the kitchen door.

“We’re ready, Aunt Lucia,” Consuela said. To the Rangers she explained. “My aunt has been widowed for many years now. We took her into our home years ago. However, despite our telling her many times she is family, and has no obligations to us, she insists on acting as our cook and serving our meals. We have been unable to change her mind, and she does love to cook. So everything has worked out for the best.”

The meal started with a soup course, followed by several others. Typical of Mexican cuisine, it was highly spiced by hot chiles, with tortillas in place of bread, and accompanied by refried beans.

“Our main meal is at midday, not in the evening,” Consuela explained.

“It is mighty filling, Senora,” Tate said.

“I just hoped you saved room for dessert,” Consuela answered. “It won’t be as heavy as an apple pie. We’ll be having flan. It’s a kind of custard.”

“You talked me into it, ma’am,” Tate answered.

***

After the meal, Santos took the lawmen to his private office. As were all the rooms, it was furnished in heavy, dark wood. As had Tuttle at the Diamond T, he offered cigars and drinks. In this case, however, the liquor was a clear, fiery tequila. Tate nearly choked on his first swallow as the tequila burned its way down his throat and into his stomach. He flushed beet-red when the drink hit his belly.

“Boy howdy, that stuff’s potent!” he exclaimed.

“But smooth,” Santos said, laughing. “Now that we have our drinks and cigars, let’s get down to the business at hand.”

“All right, Senor,” Tim said. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing I said to Earl Tuttle over at the Diamond T, and make it short and sweet. Sheriff Little requested Ranger help in gettin’ to the bottom of whatever’s goin’ on between you and Tuttle. The trouble stops, right here and now. I’m gonna be investigatin’ the situation over the next couple of days. I intend to come up with a solution which will put an end to the fightin’, once and for all. It’s up to you and Tuttle whether or not you take it. But I’m not gonna tolerate any more threats, any more fightin’, any more fence-cuttin’ or buildin’ burnin’, and especially no more takin’ pot shots at each other. Do you understand me, Senor Santos?”

“Perfectly,” Santos replied. “However, the trouble is not of my making. Earl Tuttle started it when he tried to claim some of my land, and the new creek. And I will not be run off land which has been in my family for generations, indeed since before this country of ours existed as an independent state. And I am an American and a Texan, not a Mexican.”

“Which is exactly what I told Tuttle,” Tim answered. “I also told him the same thing I’m tellin’ you now. I’m not takin’ sides in this dispute. I’m gonna be fair to both of you. But if you two clowns end up startin’ a range war, or worse a border war, over somethin’ that should be able to be fixed over a couple of drinks, I’ll come down on both of you, real hard. And like I also told Tuttle, I missed the last two Christmases at home with my wife and boy. I intend to with them for Christmas this year. If I miss that because of you and Tuttle, I’ll make your lives as miserable as I can. And that’s a guarantee. So for the next few days, while I’m here performing my job, there’d better not be one hint of trouble. Not one.”

“I assure you there won’t be any from the D Cross S, Ranger Bannon,” Santos promised.

“Good. Tuttle made the same promise. I’ll be holdin’ both of you to it. Tate, finish your drink. There’s a lot more we have to do before dark. Senor Santos, thanks for the meal. It was delicious. You’ll be hearing from me in a few days.”

“Fine, Ranger. Let me show you out.”

A short while later, Tim and his partners were riding away from the D Cross S. On the northern horizon, storm clouds were gathering.

***

After leaving the Santos ranch house, Tim had Sheriff Little show him the stream which had formed after the landslide the year previous. The ride across the D Cross S was pleasant. As Boyd assured them would happen, the temperature had risen into the fifties, and the snow was long melted away.

“There it is, Tim,” Boyd said, when they reached the stream. “Sure don’t look like much, does it? But in a country as dry as this, any dependable source of water is more valuable than gold or silver.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Tim said. Indeed, the creek was little more than a foot deep and a few feet wide. But its water was clear and sweet, not at all the usual alkaline liquid of this territory.

“You mind takin’ us to where it starts?” Tim asked.

“Not at all,” Boyd answered. He turned Goldie northward, with the rest of the men strung out behind. A short time later, they reined up at the base of a large mesa.

“That’s the creek’s source,” Boyd said. He pointed to a gash in the mesa’s wall, where a huge section of rock had come crashing down, exposing the underground spring which now fed the stream. “That big hunk of rock fell, and suddenly Tuttle and Santos had themselves a creek.”

“Any way up that mesa?” Tim asked.

“I dunno,” Boyd admitted. “Never tried to find one. Why?”

“I’d like to get up there, take a look around,” Tim said.

“You think mebbe that landslide didn’t happen on its own, but had a little help… mebbe from some black powder or dynamite?” Rick asked.

“I’m not sure, but I am darn curious to have a good looksee from up there,” Tim answered. “I can get a good idea of the lay of the land from up top, too.”

“It’s gonna be dark soon,” Boyd said. “Couple of hours, three at the most.”

“I know,” Tim said. “Listen, you and Rick head back to town. Tate and I are gonna try’n find a way up that mesa.”

“Tate and I? I don’t recollect volunteerin’ to break my neck climbin’ those rocks,” Tate said.

“You turnin’ back on me?” Tim asked.

“Nope. Just not relishin’ the thought of ridin’ Buddy clean over a two hundred foot drop.” Tate gave a shudder.

“Don’t worry. Rowdy won’t go where he can’t get out of,” Tim said. “Sheriff, you and Rick go on home. We’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

Boyd looked at the sheer cliffs of the mesa and shook his head.

“If you don’t break every bone in your body, like Tate said. Well, reckon it’s your funeral. C’mon, Rick, let’s go. Tim, Tate, we’ll see you tomorrow… I hope.”

“You will, Boyd,” Tim said. “Manana.”

“Manana.”

The sheriff and deputy turned their horses back toward town.

“Tate, time to find our way up that mesa,” Tim said. “Let’s go.” He and Tate allowed their horses to drink their fill while they filled their canteens Once the horses’ thirst was quenched, they splashed them across the shallow creek. Tim headed directly for the jumbled rocks which had fallen from the mesa. He studied the water flowing from beneath them.

“Sure is a big pile of rocks,” Tate said.

“It sure is,” Tim answered. “Glad we weren’t under there when they came crashin’ down. Now we need to find a way to the top.”

“Sure don’t seem to be any,” Tate said.

“There’s usually a way up the sides of a mesa,” Tim said. “Sometimes you’ve gotta look real hard to find it, sometimes you have to make your own, and most times you’ve gotta pick your way real careful. Sometimes you have to leave your horse behind and go on foot. Main thing is not to get yourself into a corner you can’t get out of… which is how I pretty much work as a Ranger anyway. If you do, you’re liable to end up dead.”

“That’s a real comforting thought,” Tate answered.

“Isn’t it?” Tim said, grinning. “Well, we sure ain’t gonna reach the top just settin’ here. Let’s go, Rowdy.”

He put the big paint into a walk and turned right along the mesa’s base. They had gone about a quarter of the way around it when Tim pulled Rowdy to a halt.

“There you are, Tate. There’s our trail.”

He pointed to a narrow shelf which slanted its way up the mesa’s side.

“That?” Tate answered, skeptically. “Even a goat wouldn’t try that thing. And it appears it stops less’n halfway up the side.”

“We’re not goats… we’re men,” Tim said. “Besides, we won’t know unless we give it a try.”

“Not sure if you’re a man or a stubborn jackass,” Tate retorted. “And that’s insultin’ the jackass.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your confidence in me,” Tim said. “You can just wait down here if you’d rather. C’mon, Rowdy, let’s go.”

He urged Rowdy onto the path.

“Oh no, you’re not leavin’ me behind,” Tate said. “Reckon I’m as loco as you are.” He put Buddy’s nose a few feet behind Rowdy’s tail, where his grulla could take confidence from Tim’s gelding, yet still see where to place his feet.

Rowdy and Tim had a bond equaled by few other equines and humans, a total trust in each other. Tim pretty much gave the horse his head, letting him pick his way up the rocky slope. In several places the trail got so narrow Rowdy could barely plant all four feet on solid ground. In others loose rock and gravel sent Rowdy’s hooves slipping, threatening to spill him and his rider to the ground far below.

“How you doin’ back there, Tate?” Tim called.

“I’m just hunky-dory,” Tate answered.

“You don’t sound it,” Tim said. “How’s Buddy?”

“A lot happier’n I am, that’s for certain. He’s not lookin’ at that dead end up ahead, like I am.”

“It’s not a dead end,” Tim said. “Rowdy’s too smart a cayuse to get himself into a trap like that. He knows there’s a way to the top. He’ll find it.”

Sure enough, when they reached what appeared to be a sheer wall rising straight up, the shelf switchbacked. Rowdy worked his way carefully around a large boulder, beyond which the shelf widened and leveled off a bit. Buddy, snorting his displeasure, but unwilling to be left behind, followed.

“See Tate, nothin’ to it,” Tim said. “We’re better’n halfway to the top. It’ll be a piece of cake from here on in.”

Tate muttered something unintelligible, but it was definitely a curse, in fact a whole string of them.

“What’d you say, pardner?” Tim asked.

“Oh, nothin’. Just wonderin’ how in the blue blazes we’re gonna get back off this overgrown gopher mound?”

“Same way we got up,” Tim said.

Forty-five minutes later, they reached the top of the mesa.

“Got about an hour of sunlight to look around,” Tim said. “Then we’ll make camp for the night. Unless you want to attempt that trail in the dark, Tate.”

“Not a chance. I’d gut-shoot you before I’d let you try that,” Tate answered.

“Then that’s settled. Let’s head over to where I figure that slide is,” Tim said. He put Rowdy back into a walk.

The mesa was of course not as table-flat as it appeared from below. Rocks and boulders were strewn about haphazardly, and gullies cut through its surface. There was somewhat more vegetation than on the desert floor below, more junipers and a few pin oaks, and some grass along with the ubiquitous cacti. A few Steller’s jays and crows flitted through the brush. Tim and Tate worked their way across the mesa, to where a good chunk of it had split off and fallen. They dismounted.

“You wait here, Rowdy,” Tim ordered. Rowdy nickered, then fell to pulling on some bunch grass. Tate patted Buddy’s neck, then he followed Tim to the mesa’s rim.

“Sure is a pretty scene from up here,” Tim said. The lowering sun cast long shadows over the land, highlighting higher spots, throwing canyons and arroyos into darkness. Tim studied the landscape for a good while, then stepped closer to the rim. He looked down to where the rock had split away.

“Need to get a closer look,” he said. “Tate, you’re gonna have to hold my ankles.”

“Now I know you’ve gone plumb loco,” Tate answered. “Well, if you fall, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tim dropped to his belly and, once Tate had a firm grasp of his ankles, edged his upper body out over the edge as far as he dared. It only took him a few minutes to see what he needed.

“All right, Tate. Pull me back.”

Once Tate dragged him away from the rim, Tim stood up and brushed dirt from his shirt and denims.

“Well, you satisfied?” Tate asked.

“Sure am. Found out what I needed to know. There’s no sign of any blastin’. Those rocks fell on their own.”

“You sure about that?”

“As sure as I can be. Now, let’s find a good spot to set up camp. It’s gonna get mighty cold up here once the sun sets. We’re gonna have to build a good fire.”

Leading their horses, the two men worked their way toward the center of the mesa, where there was a bit more greenery.

“This is it right here, Tate,” Tim said. “There’s water in that depression, and plenty of deadwood. We can spread our blankets out against that ledge. The rocks’ll hold some of the heat from the fire and reflect it back at us. We’ll be downright cozy.”

“Just like in a soft feather bed back at Lulu’s place,” Tate muttered. “Well, might as well get settled. I see a long night ahead of us.”

The horses were unsaddled, groomed, and turned loose to graze. Rowdy wouldn’t stray far from Tim, and Buddy wouldn’t wander out of sight of Rowdy. Besides, there was nowhere for them to go anyway. After their mounts were cared for, Tim and Tate turned their attention to their own needs. A fire was built, then bacon and beans were soon frying in the pan, biscuits rising, and coffee boiling. The storm clouds of earlier had scattered, so the setting sun gilded the sky in spectacular shades of orange, crimson, and gold as it dipped below the horizon while the Rangers ate. Dusk fell rapidly, so by the time they consumed the last of their meal, it was pitch dark. Myriad stars pinpricked the inky canopy of the sky. More wood was thrown on the fire, then Tim and Tate slid under their blankets.

“I figure we don’t have to worry about any renegade Comanch’ spottin’ our fire up here,” Tate said. “Guess we can sleep without worryin’ about losin’ our scalps.”

“I think that’s a safe bet,” Tim said. He lay gazing up at the sky, while Tate smoked a final cigarette.

“Sure is pretty,” Tim observed. “A man can really feel God’s presence up here. Makes you realize how great He is, and how small and insignificant we are.”

“I don’t believe in all that stuff,” Tate said. “Man’s here on his own. You make of this life what you can, then it’s over.”

“You can’t mean that,” Tim answered. “You can’t possibly see all the wonders of this world and not believe in God.”

“I used to, once,” Tate said. “My daddy was a fire and brimstone Baptist preacher. Scared Hell into me every Sunday, and the other six days besides. My ma wasn’t like him at all. She was a real gentle soul. When she died, despite all my pa’s prayers to save her, I realized there wasn’t no God, least none that cared about us. If He had, He would’ve saved my ma. She died way too young. After that my pa kind of just withered away. He was gone six months after my ma. I’ve got no other kin, so that left me on my own. Been that way for nigh onto five years now. Ain’t no pie in the sky Almighty lookin’ after me. I’m doin’ just fine on my own.”

“Tate, I’m sorry about your ma and pa,” Tim said. “But whether you believe in God or not, I’m tellin’ you they’re in Heaven with him right now. Lord knows I’m a sinner, don’t get to Sunday Mass anywhere near as often as I should, but I know God will forgive me, if I just ask. And He’s saved my life more’n once. Someday you’ll come to believe too.”

“And someday Buddy’ll sprout wings and fly,” Tate answered. He took a long drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt away. “Good night, Tim.”

“Good night, Tate.”

Tim, as usual, said his evening prayers before dropping off to sleep. This night he added one for Tate, that his young partner would once again find his lost faith.

***

Despite Tate’s misgivings, the following morning the descent from the mesa top was made without incident. He and Tim rode back into Sierra Blanca just before noon. They headed straight for Boyd Little’s office. Luckily, he was in when they arrived.

“Tim, Tate. Glad to see you back in one piece. You make it to the top of that mesa?”

“We sure did, Boyd,” Tim answered. “Nothin’ to it.”

“Except takin’ ten years off my life,” Tate added.

“Well, at least it didn’t end yesterday by you both fallin’ off a cliff,” Boyd said. “You find what you were lookin’ for, Tim?”

“Sure did. No sign of any cause for those rocks fallin’ but a heavy rain. Appears no one’s stirrin’ up Tuttle and Santos but their own selves.”

“You got anything further in mind, or you just gonna try’n talk some sense into ‘em again?”

“I’ve got a thing or two in mind, yeah,” Tim answered. “Right now we’re gonna take care of our horses, then grab somethin’ to eat. After that I need to stop by the county land office. Need to look at some records. Once I see those, I’ll get a couple of telegrams off to Austin. Soon as I receive answers to those, I’ll be ready to pull in those two.”

“You want to tell me any more?”

“Not until I see those records and get my replies from Austin,” Tim answered. “Soon as I do, I can let you know what to expect.”

“Fair enough,” Boyd answered. “I haven’t eaten yet either. You mind if I come along?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Then let’s eat.”

***

Sheriff Little had a meeting with the town council that evening, and Annette Lewis, the deputy’s wife, was going to be at a church quilting bee, so Rick joined Tim and Tate when they headed for the El Dorado Saloon to relax with a couple of beers before turning in for the night. They had been there for nearly two hours and were nursing one final beer, while Tim was debating whether to call it an evening or get in on one of the several poker games being played. Instead, they turned their attention to the door when the batwings swung open and a crowd of rowdy cowboys pushed their way into the room. Tim recognized Earl Tuttle’s twin boys, David and Duane, and Mel Harrington, the wrangler who had been standing guard at the Diamond T during their visit. The others were obviously cowboys, most likely all of them Diamond T punchers come into town for a night of fun. It was plain they had already visited several other saloons and were feeling the effects of the liquor they’d downed. They stopped short when they spotted the three lawmen, who stood facing them, their backs against the bar.

“Son of a …!” the man who had led the group into the saloon cursed. His face twisted with anger. “Of all the rotten luck. Those must be the Rangers who are tryin’ to let your daddy’s land be stolen,” he said to the twins. “Here we come to town to have us a good time, and we have to run into them.”

“Nothin’s stoppin’ you, Hank,” Rick said. “You just go on about your plans, and don’t let us bother you.” To the Rangers he added, “That’s Tuttle’s foreman, Hank Pardee, along with a bunch of the Diamond T’s hands… and Tuttle’s boys, of course.” More softly he added, “Hank’s got a real nasty temper, and it only gets worse when he’s been drinkin’.”

“You’re stoppin’ us, deputy,” Pardee said. He spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the sawdust-covered floor. “Just the sight of those two plug-ugly Rangers there makes me want to puke! And their stink is enough to make a pig farmer cry.”

“You’d best watch what you’re sayin’, Hank,” Rick warned. “You could be bitin’ off a bit more’n you could chew.”

“We’re not worried about a couple of yella-bellied Rangers, are we, Dave?” Duane asked his brother.

“We sure ain’t,” Duane answered. “Heck, we’ve got ‘em so scared they’re shakin’ in their boots. They’re so afraid they haven’t even opened their mouths. They’re lettin’ the lousy deputy do all their talkin’ for ‘em.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty I can say to you and your friends, boys,” Tim said. “Just that it ain’t worth the bother. Now why don’t all of you do what Rick said. Have your drinks, play some cards, get yourselves some women if you want. But don’t even think of startin’ somethin’ you won’t be able to finish.”

Behind the lawmen Ed Sweeney, the owner of the El Dorado, slid a sawed-off shotgun from under the counter and placed it on the bar.

“There’ll be no gunplay in here, fellers,” he warned.

“We ain’t gonna need any guns, Ed,” Pardee said. “We’ll tear these lawdogs apart with our bare hands.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Tim said.

Pardee and his companions laughed.

“The Ranger sure talks big, don’t he, boys?” Pardee said. To Tim he continued, “Mister, there’s ten of us and only three of you.”

“Those odds seem about right to me,” Tim said. “Only problem I see is there’s one extra man. How about you two?”

Tate and Rick nodded their assent.

“Odds might be a little short, Tim,” Tate said. “Should be a few more of ‘em to even things up a bit, and give ‘em a fightin’ chance. Far as the extra man, you’re in charge here, so I figure it’s only fair he’s yours. Rick?”

“Yeah, I reckon,” Rick agreed. “Tim, the odd man out’s yours.”

“All right,” Tim said. “Pardee, this is your last chance. Either take your boys and get out, or else you’re all under arrest… you bunch of mangy lop-eared slinkin’ coyotes.”

With a collective shout, the Diamond T cowboys charged the lawmen. Pardee headed straight for Tim, who braced himself against the bar and kicked Pardee in the stomach, stopping his onrush and driving him backward. He crashed into two men behind him, and all three toppled over. Another cowboy slammed a hard right to Tim’s jaw. Tim shook off the blow and sank his fist into the man’s gut. When he doubled over, Tim brought his knee up into his chin, snapping his neck back. The cowboy dropped, out of the fight. Pardee and the two men he’d knocked over had regained their feet. More wary now, they advanced on Tim, looking for an opening.

Alongside Tim, Duane and Dave had pounced on Tate. Duane dove at the young Ranger, slamming his back against the edge of the bar. When Tate arched in agony, Dave punched him hard in the belly. He landed three blows before Tate, struggling to pull air into his lungs, bent over, wrapped his arms around Dave’s waist, and drove him to the floor. They rolled away from the bar until they hauled up against a post, Tate on top. He slammed a left into Dave’s face, then Duane grabbed Tate’s shirt, pulled him to his feet, and punched him in the jaw. Another of the Diamond T cowboys smashed a fist into Tate’s ribs. Duane got back up. He, his brother, and the third man began pummeling away at the young Ranger, attempting to overwhelm him by sheer numbers.

Mel Harrington and the two remaining cowboys went after Rick Lewis. Harrington punched the deputy twice in the chin, then Rick ducked under his third blow and hit Harrington in the stomach. The wrangler backed away, retching. Rick parried a blow from one of the other cowboys and flattened his nose with a powerful right. The third hit Rick in the face, and when he staggered backwards slammed blows to his chest and belly. Rick twisted aside just in time to avoid a finishing punch to the point of his chin. Instead, the blow slid along his jaw. Rick kneed the cowboy in the groin. He dropped to his knees, howling. His two companions grabbed Rick and dragged him down. They landed in a tangled heap.

“Hey Tim,” Tate shouted. “I can’t tell which one is which I’m fightin’ here.” Tate had knocked one man unconscious, but now twins Duane and Dave were taking turns at the young Ranger, rushing in then backing out, landing jabs which were beginning to wear Tate down.

“Can’t help you,” Tim yelled back. “I’m kinda busy here.” Pardee and two of the three men who had come at Tim were still in the fight. Tim grunted when Pardee landed a hard blow low in his belly, sinking his fist wrist-deep into Tim’s gut. Tim jackknifed, turned, and dropped to his back. He brought both feet up into the pit of one cowboy’s stomach and slammed him into a table, which collapsed under the man’s weight. The cowboy landed on his back, rolled onto his belly, attempted to push himself up, then crumpled to his face.

“Gotta finish this now,” Tim muttered. He rolled away from a kick Pardee intended for his ribs, grabbed Pardee’s ankle, and twisted it. Pardee fell onto his back. Tim dove on top of him, smashed two punches to his face and another to his throat. Pardee’s eyes glazed and his body went slack as he lost consciousness.

Tim’s last attacker pulled him upright. He hit Tim in the mouth. Tim shook his head, spit out a mouthful of blood, and landed four quick lefts and rights to the man’s stomach, followed by a tremendous uppercut to his chin. The cowboy dropped like a poleaxed steer. Tim sagged against the bar, gasping.

Rick Lewis stood over the three Diamond T men, including Mel Harrington, who were lying at his feet, all out cold. Rick wiped blood from his chin, looked at Tim, and grinned crookedly. His swollen jaw wouldn’t allow him to smile otherwise.

Dave Tuttle was lying on his back where he had fallen to Tate’s punishing fists. A final grunt came from Duane Tuttle when Tate put all the strength he could muster behind a punch that seemed to start from the floor and drove so hard into Duane’s belly it lifted him a foot in the air as he folded over Tate’s fist. He dropped like a rag doll, landed atop his brother, shuddered and lay still. Tate staggered back to join Tim and Rick, who were leaning against the bar, dragging air into their heaving chests. All three were battered, cut, and bruised, their clothes in tatters. The bystanders looked in disbelief at all ten Diamond T men lying sprawled in the sawdust, unmoving.

The batwings burst open and a man wearing a marshal’s badge came in, carrying a rifle.

“What the devil happened here?” he asked.

“Hank Pardee and his boys made the mistake of tryin’ to take on the Rangers and Rick there,” Ed Sweeney said. He nodded at the lawmen.

The marshal looked around the room, then his gaze settled on Rick.

“That right, Rick?” he asked.

“Sure is,” Rick said. “Tim…”

“That’s right, Marshal,” Tim answered. “They’d had a few too many drinks, and came in spoilin’ for a fight.”

“I’d say they got one, and then some,” the marshal said. “I’m Frank Casey. Reckon you’d be Tim Bannon. Sheriff Little told me about you. You want to press charges?”

“I am, and my pard’s Tate Slocum. Far as pressin’ charges, no. We’ll get outta here before those boys wake up. When they do, just send ‘em on their way. I reckon they’ve had a bellyful of fightin’ for awhile.”

“All right, Ranger.”

“Tate, Rick, let’s go clean up.”

Rick headed for home, while Tim and Tate went back to their room, washed up, and treated their hurts as best they could. They fell into bed, where despite their aches would soon fall asleep, and not awaken until well after the sun came up.