Looking to the Future, page 9
The captain smiled. “I don’t think even a bad hangover would keep Crowley out of that one.”
Edwards said, “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Crowley with a hangover. That should be interesting.”
* * *
At that very moment, Wes and Mac were sitting in Wes’ room at opposite ends of the table under the window.
When they first left the captain’s office, Wes and Mac visited the gun shop. Mac wanted to get a replacement cleaning rod for his Winchester. It replaced the one he’d misplaced somewhere earlier. Wes bought two more spare cylinders for his Colts.
Mac looked at him as he laid the cylinders on the counter. “Don’t you already have four spare cylinders?”
“Yep. Now I have six. You ever seen a time when you had too much ammo?”
They had both bought extra boxes of ammunition too.
Back at the Inn, they stopped by Mac’s room first so he could stash the ammo and then clean his carbine.
Wes said, “Listen, I’m gonna clean my Colts too. They’re both overdue. Why don’t you come to my room? We can share the table, and we’ll have a view of the street.”
“Hey now, that’s not a bad idea.” Mac picked up his Winchester and gestured with it toward the open door. “After you, Corporal Crowley.” He chuckled.
Wes grinned. “I appreciate that, Corporal McFadden. But we’d better go easy on the corporal stuff until our warrants actually get here.”
“You don’t believe the captain?”
“‘Course I do. But a promotion is one of those deals that’ll be easier to believe once it happens.”
* * *
When the two patrols rode in, Wes had just finished cleaning one of his Colts. He traded it for the dirty one still in the right holster on his gun belt, then laid that one on a white bar towel on his end of the table. So he wouldn’t run out, he had “borrowed” several towels from the bartender long before he had even heard of Governor Wallace from Santa Fe.
Pieces of Mac’s carbine lay on another towel, gun oil yellowing it here and there.
When Wes saw a horse’s head in his left periphery, he peered through the window for a moment. Corporal Edwards had just closed the door of the Ranger office. Wes said, “The boys are back. Is there anything better than watching Rangers ride-in together? Slow or fast, it still gets to me as much as it did all those years ago in Watson.”
“Me too,” Mac said, but he only glanced. Then he went back to scrubbing his weapon.
The brief glimpse of the street reminded him of the ancient old Comanche he and his father had seen when Mac was a young child. The old Indian had walked proudly down the center of another main street in another town. Every other step or so he’d beat on a small drum he carried. Between beats, he proclaimed the townspeople and the town itself were trespassers on his homeland.
The townsfolk all jeered at him. A cowboy had finally ridden up and shot the old man in the leg. When he went down, the cowboy lassoed him and dragged him out of town before killing him.
Mac’s father had advised him never to forget the scene. “What the mob can do to that one proud man, they can also do to anyone else. And given the right incentive, they will.”
Mac hadn’t forgotten. What’s more, the incident gave rise to his sense of the injustice the Comanches had suffered at the hands of the settlers. And even the Rangers who tried to safeguard them.
But that sense wouldn’t fully surface for another year.
Chapter 21: The Party, New Patrols, and Trouble
That night, all hands were at the Ranger table in the dining room for supper. For this special occasion, Wes and Mac were seated in chairs directly across from the captain.
Before the meals were served, the captain stood up and clinked his spoon against the side of his coffee cup. “Gentleman, I know some of you are not strangers to the bar here at the Inn.”
Everyone laughed.
“But tonight, I personally request your presence there immediately after supper. “We’ll gather to celebrate the forthcoming promotions of Company D’s new sergeants—Corporals Connolly and Edwards—” He gestured to his right and left, respectively. “And our newest corporals.” He gestured across the table. “Rangers Wes Crowley and Otis McFadden.”
Everyone burst into applause. Some cheered or whistled.
When the noise died down, the captain said, “Of course, some of you will ride out on a mission tomorrow, so bear in mind the rigors of hard riding while suffering from a hangover.” He grinned, then put up both hands, palms out. “Enjoy.”
Everyone laughed as the captain sat down. The meals were served as the Rangers chatted among themselves, and the room was filled with their occasional laughter and exuberance.
The civilians seated at various tables around the room seemed to enjoy it almost as much as the Rangers did. All of them were smiling, and some whispered to their table mates as they pointed toward the Ranger table.
Just after a waiter set his meal in front of him and one in front of Wes, Mac leaned to his right and whispered, “Jeeze, Wes, this corporal thing is a big deal.”
Wes gestured around the table with his knife in one hand and his fork in the other. “Look at ‘em, Mac. Any reason to celebrate is a big deal.” He grinned. “We just happen to be half the reason this time around.” After a moment, he glanced at Mac again. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ll ever leave Amarillo again.”
* * *
The next morning, the two smaller patrols left right after they ate a quick breakfast.
Wes managed to make it downstairs about the same time. The last couple of men were just going through the door.
The captain was still there, as were Bill Pinchot and Jack Stilson. So the captain had kept back two of the old guard to safeguard the town. Well, plus him and Mac. Good.
The captain looked up, pleasantly surprised. “Glad you could join us, Crowley. And Mac?”
“I haven’t seen him since we parted ways just past the landing last night, Cap. Or early this morning. Whenever it was. Great party.” He managed a weak smile.
“Understandable.” The captain returned his attention to his plate just as a waiter approached and asked Wes what he’d like other than the coffee he’d just poured for him.
“More of that. Keep it comin’. Three eggs, ham, biscuits and gravy.”
When the waiter left, Wes looked over the table again. Eight empty plates. So the corporals and three men each.
Trying to remember everyone in the company, he formed the patrols in his mind. With Connolly would be Blake Stanton and two of the new guys. Those would be Billy Dramon and Sam Britten. With Edwards would be Slate Lawson and the newbies Tom Siler and Eli Sanders. Good. Two old hands and two newbies on each patrol. Should be a good learning experience for the new ones. Tracking if nothing else.
He gingerly sipped his coffee.
A moment later, old Sam Pencilman came into the dining room.
The captain looked up. Quietly, he said, “Oh my.”
The telegrapher seldom brought good news either early or late in the day. As Pencilman made his way across the floor directly toward the Ranger table, the captain stood, a frown on his face. “What is it, Sam?”
The old man held up the telegram. “Not for you this time, Captain Wilson. Is Ranger Crowley here?”
Wes turn in his chair and raised one hand. “Right here, Mr. Pencilman.” Then he got up and made his way across the floor. They met near the center of the room.
Pencilman handed him the message. It was folded in half. “I would have waited, but it was marked Urgent.”
“Yes sir, that’s fine. I appreciate it.” Wes opened the message and read.
Lew Wallace told me.
I should have said yes.
I hope you are all right.
Come to me when you can.
I love you. Rose
Wes shook his head.
Aw damn it. I meant to send Rosy a telegram the day I got back. With everything else going on I guess it slipped my mind.
He read the message again, then looked at Mr. Pencilman. “Sir, can you send a telegram right back to Rose for me?”
“Of course. What do you want to say?”
“Can I borrow your pen?”
Mr. Pencilman pulled his fountain pen from his pocket, removed the cap, and handed it to Wes.
Wes knelt and spread the message face-down on his thigh just above his knee. He poised the pen above it, but for a moment he wasn’t sure what to write.
He wanted to tell her he was sorry he hadn’t let her know sooner. That he had meant to, and that everything was okay. The bad guys were gone and he was alive and missing her like air.
He wanted to tell her he was proud of her and everything she had accomplished. That she was right to stay in Santa Fe, that she would be safe there.
He wanted to tell her he thought of her every day, sometimes every hour, and wished things could be different. Wished he could be different.
But he wasn’t different, and neither was she.
So no. None of that matters. Not really.
He finally touched the pen to the surface and began printing.
Your place is there and I understand.
But my place is here. I am a Ranger.
Please enjoy your life.
Love, Wes
He read over what he’d written again, then nodded. He put the cap back on the pen, straightened, and handed it and the message to Mr. Pencilman. “Could you send that right away for me?”
Pencilman glanced at the message, then looked up. “Sure I will, Wes. And I’m awfully sorry, son.” He touched Wes on the shoulder with one gnarled hand.
Wes nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Pencilman. Just the way it’s gotta be I guess.” He patted the old man on the shoulder, then turned and went back to the table.
The captain leaned forward. Quietly, he said, “Was it anything important?”
The waiter set Wes’ plate in front of him, and Wes looked up, smiled and nodded.
Wes picked up his knife and fork. His hands trembled slightly. As he sliced off a piece of ham, then stabbed it with his fork, he rested the heel of his left hand, the one holding the knife, on the table. He used the piece of ham to break the yolk of an egg, then looked at the captain. “Yes sir. Sort of. But it’s not business.” He looked down at his plate. “Just somethin’ else to live with.” He put the dripping slice of ham into his mouth.
As he began to chew, the thunder of galloping horses came from the street, accompanied by wild war whoops.
Across the table, Bill Pinchot said, “Comanches! Jesus! Was the stuff out east a diversion?”
The captain’s voice. “For their sake, I hope so!”
Wes twisted around in his chair and jerked himself up. His chair fell to the side, clacking against the wooden floor.
As he turned, the window in the front wall shattered into the room.
A table next to the window slammed to the floor, three chairs clattering away.
Through the billowing dust filling the street and filtering through the busted window, a whirring ball, a blur, flipped into the room.
Chapter 22: Four Crows, and Death
Wes gaped at the form that had flipped through the space where the window had been. He hoped the trouble to the east was a diversion too. If this is the diversion— Half those men are rookies.
In seeming slow motion, the whirring ball hit, rolled, stopped—
In the same place Wes and Mr. Pencilman had occupied only a moment ago. Pencilman with a telegram from Rosy. God, if she’d come with me—
A hand emerged from the blur, wedged against the floor, the fingers spread and straining. Trapped between the other hand and the floor, a revolver. Then black hair, feathers dangling, a painted face coming up, eyes glaring hatred.
Three feathers. Three dead men or women. Or children.
Heat flashed into Crowley’s face.
The brave pushed off the floor, trying to straighten, trying to bring the revolver up—
Wes drew both Colts. Cocked, fired. Cocked—
Behind Wes on the right, an explosion. Bill Pinchot.
Fired. Cocked, fired.
The brave twisted hard, jerked, jerked, and slapped to his left side on the floor. The revolver clattered away to one side.
Someone yelled, “Wes—”
“I’ve got the door!”
As Wes ran for the door of the dining room, a painted face appeared in the lower left corner of the window frame, another at the lower right corner.
Wes brought up his right Colt and fired, but as his Colt bucked, two more explosions came from his left—Stilson.
The face in the lower left splattered in a flash of red and disappeared.
Another explosion came from behind him. The captain or Pinchot, probably firing at the other face. And Wes was going through the dining room door.
Boot heels on the floor behind him to the left. Stilson was coming to join him.
From the dining room, Bill Pinchot yelled, “Damn it, get down!”
The captain yelled, “Hell no!” Another chair faintly clattered to the floor.
More boot heels crossing the wooden floor.
Wilson and Pinchot running to the window.
Both Colts still in his hands and cocked, Wes ran out through the front door, fired his left revolver. The bullet hit the bare chest of a Comanche to his left on the boardwalk. Beads scattered.
Stilson came through behind him.
Wes cast a quick glance. “Jack—”
Stilson fired twice, once at an Indian to his right, edging toward the window, and once at a brave racing toward him on a horse.
The clouds of dust were thicker, higher. Horses and riders flashed left to right and back, yelling and whooping.
One stopped, his eyes wide, glared at Crowley. He raised a lance, but his horse reared and turned.
Wes fired, cocked, fired. The first bullet took him in the left temple. The second behind his left arm and deep into his chest.
He toppled, and the horse raced away to the west.
Wes watched the horse run. Past it beyond the dust cloud, a lone figure. The Comanche was mounted, distant and separate, his horse standing sideways in the center of the street. He held a lance in one hand.
Crowley scowled. Four Crows.
Well out of range of the Colts. And my carbine’s in my damn room.
He stepped out in the street and cocked both Colts. He stopped, elevated the barrels, extended both arms, and fired.
Beyond the dust cloud, two dense plumes of dirt geysered up, one a few feet to the left of the figure and one about five feet short.
“Damn it.” Wes slapped the left Colt into the holster and cocked the right revolver again as he raced down the street.
The Comanche war chief didn’t move.
Wes stopped next to a post, leaned his left shoulder against it, elevated the barrel of the Colt again and looked to judge the range.
The Comanche was gone.
Just like that, it was over. All the Indians who were still mounted were racing past him to the west. A lot of the dust was following them out.
Behind him, Stilson was still firing at their backs, but none of them fell.
One more shot also came from the space that had held the window.
From somewhere, Jack Stilson yelled, “Wes, you okay?”
Wes nodded, still watching the Indians recede. “I’m good,” he said, then said it again, louder. He pointed northwest. “Let’s get to the stable.”
“I gotta check on Pinchot and the cap—”
“You go ahead.” He turned and started across the street.
Not two days ago Ramón said the Comanches never bothered him.
But this time they’d come in from the west.
* * *
As Stilson turned for the door, the captain walked out. Pinchot was right behind him, and he was grinning. “That was intense!”
Stilson smiled. Nerves. “Ya’ll all right, Cap?”
The captain only nodded as he looked down the street. He spotted Crowley and put one hand to the side of his mouth. “Where you going, Wes?”
Stilson said, “Livery stable.”
The captain nodded. “You two go with him.”
Pinchot said, “Captain, I—”
The captain pointed stiffly and bellowed, “Go!”
Stilson and Pinchot caught up with Wes on the next street as he rounded the corner to the left toward the stable.
When they ran up, Wes pointed at the barn, still a couple of hundred yards distant.
No smoke. Quietly, he said, “No fire. That’s good.”
As they walked into the yard, Ramón was a lone figure, standing in front of his barn with a carbine. A double-barrel 10 gauge shotgun leaned against one side of the barn door behind him. He raised one hand. “Hey guys. What was that all about?”
As Wes walked past him, he said, “Four Crows. Probably a diversion. We’ll need our horses.”
Ramón turned as the other two Rangers followed Wes into the barn. “Sure.”
Inside as he hefted his saddle off one side of Charley’s stall, Wes glanced at Pinchot. “Bill, you come with me. Jack, get your horse too, but you stay back here with the captain. If he doesn’t like it, stay out of sight.”
Stilson frowned. “Where you guys going? You can’t catch up with Four—”
“We ain’t going after him.” Wes tugged on the cinch for Charley’s saddle. “We’re riding east. I just hope they’re in one piece. Four of ‘em are rookies.”
He climbed into the saddle, then walked Charley out of the barn. “Ramón, lend me your carbine. Is it loaded?”
Ramón passed it up to him. “Yes sir. I never fired it. For some reason they didn’t—”
“Thanks.” Wes reined Charley around and urged him to a gallop.
Pinchot came out and did the same. He caught up with Wes on Main Street just before they exited the east end of Amarillo. When they did, Wes leaned into the ride. Somehow, Charley seemed to gallop even harder.
Pinchot had a hard time keeping up.
