Looking to the Future, page 5
Quietly, Mac said, “Jeez, Wes.”
The captain said, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I have to admit I’m glad you’re back. We have close to a full complement now, including the newer men who came here just before you left and four others.”
“Yes sir. Mac filled me in. Actually, he and I are gonna head over to the Inn. I’m gonna try to finagle my room out of Manuel, and then we might have a glass or two in the saloon. Come along if you’d like.”
“No no, you men go ahead. I have some things to finish here. And I have a feeling Lew—that is, Governor Wallace—will wire you back sooner rather than later. I’m sure Sam Pencilman will come here first.”
* * *
Standing behind the registration desk of the Amarillo Inn, Manuel Ortega was in his usual uniform: black trousers and belt, a white shirt and collar, and a black vest. The collar was secured with a string tie. His hair was thick and black, but with a silver streak above each temple. He was studying the registration book that lay open on the desk.
Mac said, “Look what I found wandering the streets, Manuel.” He clapped Wes on the back.
Manuel looked up, his forehead furrowed at the interruption. Then his eyes got larger and he smiled broadly. “Señor Crowley? And you are back?”
Wes grinned. “Yessir. In the flesh, what there is of it. I wondered if maybe I could get my old room back.” He held up one hand. “Long as you don’t have to throw nobody out, ‘cause any ol’ room will—”
Manuel came around the desk, still smiling, his right hand extended. As they shook hands, he said, “Nobody else has used the room, señor. We all knew you would be back, though I personally expected you much sooner. Some of us heard you were to hire on with the gobernador for only one-half of one year.”
“Yes sir. Well, that was the original deal, but it turned out to be a little longer. Things were different than we expected. There were more outlaws, not as many comancheros—and some other situations. Mostly business things. I wish I could’ve made it back sooner, though, believe me. But things led to other things. You know how it goes.”
Manuel seemed to study Wes’ eyes for a quick moment. “Oh sí, I do know how it goes—with both the business things and with the not-business things. I was not always an old man running a hotel and a saloon. But you know the old saying: What cannot be remedied must be endured.”
Wes nodded. “I know it well. Gracias, Manuel.”
For a moment, Manuel seemed a little uneasy. Then he spread his hands and smiled. “So when will you move back in, señor?”
Wes grinned and jerked one thumb. “Soon as I can get my things from—”
Something exploded outside, and one pane of the window on the front of the Inn shattered.
Chapter 12: Comanches
When the window blew up, Manuel ducked behind the registration desk.
Wes and Mac both hit the floor as Comanche war whoops filtered in through the broken window.
Mac yelled, “What the hell was that?” He slapped his left hand against the side of his neck. A stinging bug or something.
Wes palmed the floor and pushed himself up. “You know what it was. C’mon!”
A Comanche brave raced in through the door.
Wes drew his right Colt and fired.
A streak of white smoke reached for the brave, but by the time it got close he was lying on his face, an imprint of his shoulders on a red stain on the wall behind him.
Wes leveled the Colt at the door. “Mac!”
Quietly, Mac said, “I’m hit, Wes. I never been—”
Wes twisted back so fast he almost fell over.
Mac was sitting up. Blood dripped from his left hand, which he’d slapped to the side of his neck. The shoulder of his tan shirt was turning dark brown.
“Get behind the desk with Manuel! I’ll be back.”
Mac rocked forward and put one hand on the floor as Wes turned and ran to the door, his Colt still leveled and cocked. As he ran, he pulled the left Colt and cocked it too.
Damn Four Crows. Just like him to—
Something whisked through the door and hit the stairs with a thud.
Wes twisted right and put his back to the wall. He glanced at the dead Comanche, whose right hand was a foot away, a stone axe lying near it. He wasn’t moving. Wes looked at the stairs.
The head of an arrow was imbedded in the third riser. The shaft was still quivering from the impact.
Wes crouched and peered past the door frame.
Horses’ hooves had churned up a thick cloud of dust. It glistened in the rays of the noonday sun. Comanche braves were everywhere, some on horseback, some scrambling on foot over the boardwalk across the street. All of them were headed west.
To the east, a horse reared, a carbine in the Comanche rider’s outstretched arm as he whooped, two feathers dangling from behind his left ear.
Wes fired, and the man toppled off the right side of his horse.
Wes’ right shoulder flinched. He was about to duck back behind the wall when a brave on foot in the street turned and pointed at the door. He yelled something.
Two more braves, both on the boardwalk, turned and leapt into the street, and the three of them raced toward the Inn. The one on the left carried a knife. The other two carried revolvers.
Wes scowled. Damn it, that is enough.
He straightened and stepped into the doorway, leveled both Colts and fired.
The brave with the knife and the one next to him fell forward, each raising additional dust.
As Wes brought the right Colt up again and cocked the hammer, from above him came the sound of shattering glass, then an explosion.
A red dot appeared on the forehead of the brave on the right. He stopped, his revolver leveled in his right hand, and toppled backward. The revolver bucked as he fell. The bullet slapped into the door frame at the top of the door above Wes.
Wes ran onto the boardwalk. He looked across the street to the east, raised the Colt in his right hand, and pointed it at two braves who were about to enter Ranger headquarters.
But two more explosions sounded above him, and both braves slapped forward, one through the door, the other against the wall.
Wes spun to look back to his right.
Nothing.
Only a smaller, denser cloud of dust, and it was rapidly receding, war whoops filtering back to him even as they faded.
And Charley’s in the damn stable. And my damn carbine’s still there too.
A second later, four more horses galloped past. Wes caught a quick glimpse of Corporal Edwards and Ranger Pinchot. He didn’t recognize the other two men.
The sound of boots on the stairs came from behind him, inside.
As Wes turned, he lowered the hammer on his right Colt and holstered it. In the same motion, he drew the left one and cocked it, pointed past the door jamb at the stairs and yelled, “Mac? You okay?”
Mac uttered a muffled reply just as a skinny, freckle-faced young man in boots and long johns stopped and grabbed the railing on the third step up. The arrow still protruded from the next riser up to his right. Scraggly blond hair reached just past his ears. His eyes wide, he put up both hands, a Winchester carbine pointing at the ceiling in the right one. “Whoa! I’m on your side!”
Two steps above him, another young-looking man stopped and grabbed the railing at the same time. In boots, dark trousers, a collarless white shirt and a black hat, he gaped, his mouth hanging open. He too carried a carbine in his right hand. He quickly swung the barrel to the right, away from Wes. Strands of his dark hair protruded from beneath the sides of his hat.
Wes lowered the hammer on his Colt. “Well, come on down here then.” He turned and started toward the registration desk. As he went, he said, “Was that you boys firing up there above me?”
Still gripping the railing, both men nodded at his back. The blond man said, “Yes sir.”
Wes stopped at the end of the registration desk and peered behind it.
Manuel was sitting with his back to the wall.
Mac was sitting cross-legged between him and Wes, his right hand on the floor as he struggled to stand.
As Mac straightened, Manuel looked past his right thigh at Wes. “It is over?”
“Yes sir.” He looked up at Mac, whose left hand was still clapped against the side of his neck. “You were hit? Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. I should’a—”
“Nah, now don’t you should’a anything. You were wounded. You couldn’t know how bad.”
Behind Mac, Manuel got to his feet. He looked up at the shattered window, then stepped forward and reached for the registration book he’d been studying before.
Mac said, “Well, I’m all right now.” He frowned. “Man, that was over quick.”
“Was it?”
From Wes’ right, someone said, “Yes sir. I only had time to fire twice.”
Wes turned just as the man in the black hat said, “Only once for me.”
Mac said, “Wes Crowley, let me introduce Billy Dramon and Eli Sanders.” Mac grinned. “Eli’s the one in the black hat. He idolizes me. They’re two of the new Rangers I mentioned.”
The blond stepped forward, his carbine pointed at the floor, his right hand extended. “Wes Crowley? We’ve heard so much ab—”
But Wes stepped past them. “Time enough later for all that. They were attacking headquarters.” As he walked toward the door, he called, “You comin’, Mac?”
“Yes sir. Right behind you.”
As they stepped off the boardwalk in front of the Amarillo Inn, Mac glanced down at Wes’ hands. “You didn’t even have your carbine?”
Wes shook his head. “You just noticed? It’s at the livery stable. If everything’s okay at the headquarters, we need to go there next. I have to get my saddlebags before I can move back into the Inn. Most everything I own’s in those saddle bags.”
Mac grinned. “As usual.”
Wes nodded. “As usual. Anyway, I plan to walk over there first. Then I’ll go back to the Inn and knock a little dust outta my throat.” He pointed at Mac’s neck. “You probably ought’a get the doc to look at that too.”
Mac had forgotten he still had his hand at his neck. “Oh. I think it’s only a scratch. It’s about stopped stinging.” He stopped and took his hand away. His fingers and palm were coated with dried blood. “How’s it look?”
Wes stopped and looked. “Yeah, you’re all right. It’s a scratch like you said. About a quarter-inch wide, maybe three inches long.” He turned and continued across the street. “Might not even leave a scar.”
Mac hurried to catch up. As they stepped up onto the boardwalk, he said, “I won’t bother the doc with it then.”
“Nah, no need.”
Chapter 13: New Rangers, and Finally Home
The door to the Ranger headquarters was still standing ajar, the dead Comanche lying across the threshold.
Wes pulled his right Colt and cocked it, pushed the door open, and stepped over the body.
Only the captain was in the room. As before, he was seated at his desk. He glanced up. “Hey, Crowley, Mac.”
Wes lowered the hammer and holstered his Colt.
The captain’s gaze shifted to Mac’s neck and he frowned. “You okay?”
Mac grinned. “Near miss.”
“Still—”
Wes said, “We’ve been over it, Cap. I see you didn’t get perforated.”
“Nah. Edwards and Stilson were in here too, looking at the map. They stopped by soon after you left. Two of the wild boys did drop in, or were about to. Edwards had just pulled his Colt when that one—” He gestured with his chin toward the body at the door. “Fell through the door. The other one went somewhere else.”
Mac said, “To hell I imagine. He’s just outside the door. I think Dramon and Sanders got those two.”
Wes said, “By the way, Cap, we’re gonna have to buy Manuel a new window.”
The captain frowned. “Oh?”
“Dramon or Sanders smashed mine out so they could shoot through it.”
“They were in your room?”
“Only one that looks straight out over the street. I wasn’t in it at the time. I haven’t taken possession again yet. Good thinking on their part.”
The captain nodded. “I suppose.”
Wes said, “I’ll pay Manuel back and you can reimburse me later.”
Mac grinned. “Or not.”
The captain laughed. “So where are you to reprobates off to next?”
Wes jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Livery stable. Get my carbine and my belongings.”
Mac said, “I’m tagging along, Cap. I’ll keep him out of trouble.”
The captain laughed again. “I’m sure. Close the door on your way out, would you?”
After they stepped over the Comanche again, Mac said, “He’s awfully small.” He bent to grab the brave’s ankles, then rolled him over so he wouldn’t be face-down as he moved him. “Oh Jesus, Wes, look. He’s only a boy. Fifteen, sixteen tops. Hadn’t even earned his first feather yet.”
“About the age we were when we started.” He shook his head. “I’m just glad he didn’t earn it on the captain.” He paused. “Well, get him outta there and let’s go get my stuff.”
Mac dragged the boy out and laid him alongside his friend on the boardwalk. Then the two of them headed for the livery stable.
* * *
Ramón Sanchez was in the yard of the livery when they walked up.
Mac raised one hand. “Hey, Ramón.”
Ramón waved. “Hey yourself. I see you found each other. What was all the noise about?”
Wes said, “Comanches. They didn’t make it out here?”
Ramón grinned. “They never make it out here. One thing I like about my location. Charley’s cleaned-up and well-fed, but he’s resting.”
“Thanks. I don’t need him right now. I just came by to get my belongings. I guess I should’a carried it all into town with me.” Wes grinned. “But from what I saw, the Rangers have everything under control. I’m not sure they need me anymore.”
Ramón said, “Oh, they need you.”
Mac grinned. “If only for comic relief.”
Wes looked at him. “Hey, that’s real funny, Mac.” He started toward the stable. Ramón would have put his saddle on the top rail of Charley’s stall with the carbine still in it. His saddlebags would be close by.
When he’d retrieved what he needed, he and Mac said goodbye to Ramón and started back into town. But as he had done before, he stopped and turned around. “We’ll see you later, Ramón? That offer of a drink stands.”
“Ah, I will not be able to make it today. My wife is cooking a special supper, she said. It would be better if I stick around today and tonight.”
Wes nodded. “You’re a lucky man. The offer will still be good the next time you can make it in.”
Ramón raised one hand and grinned. “It will be my pleasure. Gracias, amigo.”
* * *
Manuel had just pried the arrow from the fourth riser of the stairs when they opened the front door of the Inn.
Mac said, “You got it, Manuel?”
The older man straightened and turned around. He held up the arrow. “The calling card of the Comanche.” He looked at Wes’ saddlebags and gestured with the arrow. “You have brought all your things?”
“Yes sir. Moving back in here will be the highlight of the last year.”
Manuel chuckled. “Gracias for saying so, pero forgive me if I do not believe you.” He curled the fingers of his right hand. “But come. I will get the key for you.”
They followed him to the registration desk.
He laid the arrow across the registration book, then reached into a drawer and picked up a key. He looked at it for a moment, then handed it to Wes. “Welcome home, mi amigo.”
Wes raised one hand. “Gracias, Manuel. We’ll see you for supper.” He glanced at his friend. “Mac, I’ll take this stuff up to my room. Then how about that glass of whiskey?”
Mac grinned. “I’ll reserve us a place at the bar.”
Wes had almost reached the stairs when the door opened behind him. “Crowley? That you?”
Wes said, “Aw hell, I guess.” He turned around, then grinned. “Hey, boys. How ya’ll doing?”
It was Corporal Edwards and Ranger Pinchot. Two other men remained behind them. One closed the door.
Corporal Edwards grinned and stuck out his right hand. “Dang, it’s good to see you again, Wes!”
Wes set his saddlebags on the bottom step. As they shook hands, he said, “Well, it’s good to be seen.” He chuckled. “Ya’ll catch up with those guys?”
Pinchot said, “Two of ‘em. The other two disappeared into that mess of washes out east of town.”
Edwards said, “They run off and left the two we caught.”
Pinchot said, “Outdistanced both us and their own men.”
Wes said, “Well, you know what they say: If I’m out huntin’ and I run into a bear, I don’t have to outrun the bear. I just have to outrun the guy I’m with.”
Edwards and Pinchot laughed.
One of the other men stepped past Pinchot and stuck out his hand. “Ranger Crowley, sir, I’m Ranger Billy Dramon.” He was tall and lean, maybe 18 years old with brown hair and eyes and a broad smile.
Wes nodded. “Good to meet you.”
As they shook hands, Dramon jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The shy one back there’s Tom Siler. We took the oath together. He ain’t much for talk, but he rides and shoots like nobody’s business. He nailed one of the Comanches with his revolver.”
Wes looked past Pinchot and curled a finger toward the youngster.
Pinchot said, “From about forty yards away, Wes. On horseback at a full gallop.”
Siler came past Pinchot and stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you, sir.” He was a couple of inches taller than Wes. He had brownish red hair, the earliest beginnings of a moustache, and ice-blue eyes.
