Ranger's Revenge

Ranger's Revenge

         My name's Trace Timberlane. I'm sixteen years old, born in 1834 near San Antonio, Texas and I just signed on to be a Texas Ranger, under the charge of Lieutenant Boots Crenshaw. Boots and his wife Kate took me in eight years ago when my family was wiped out by Comanches. Lieutenant Crenshaw saved my life that day, but my dark hair turned cloud white from fear.

         Boots taught me how to be a man, and Kate, a teacher before coming west, gave me a right fair education at their ranch near the mouth of the Rio Grande. Both treated me as family.

         I'd been a Ranger less than a month when Lieutenant Crenshaw told me we were riding out, with three other Rangers, in search of a band of Indians who were attacking and murdering settlers along the Brazos River west of Houston and as far north as Fort Worth. "Shouldn't have no trouble, Trace. We've got more'n enough firepower to take 'em on...if we can find 'em."

         I cinched up my horse's saddle. "Think Rides Fast might be among them?" I asked, hoping to find the Comanche boy who killed my Ma.

         Boots spat tobacco juice. "Could be. Witnesses say it looks like there might be fifteen or so in the band. And it's in his range."

         On the May morning before Lieutenant Crenshaw and I left, Kate filled us with a hearty breakfast and her usual concerns. "Boots, you take care that Trace doesn't forget to eat. You know he gets skinny when he doesn't eat right. And both of you...please...be careful."

         Boots kissed his wife such a grand kiss I figured it would hold her until we returned. Kate hugged me, holding me back until Boots stepped from the porch and began checking his gear for the fifth time. And, though Boots and Kate were both shy of their thirtieth birthday, she said with trembling lips, "Take care of the old man for me, hear?"

         "Yes, ma'am. You can depend on me, Kate."

         A while later the other Rangers rode in and joined us. We headed north, riding side-by-side. "Trace," Boots called out, loud enough for all of us to hear. "These fine gentlemen on my left are Dick Benson, and Elija Brouse. Dick's the ugly one."

         I nodded to the two men. From Boots' description, either could be Benson.

         "Man ridin' beside ya is Cuss Rathright, a long-time compadre. Boys, say howdy to Trace Timberlane."

         Cuss reached out to me with a hand like sun-dried leather. I shook his hand, startled by the strength in his grasp, him being a man of small stature. His close-set, cactus green eyes crinkled. "Any man Lieutenant Crenshaw lets ride with him is my friend," Cuss said.

         Elija Brouse touched the brim of his hat and eyed me like a toad eyes a moth. He wore a heavy beard and his hair hung long down his back.

         I leaned across the back of Boots' horse to shake hands with Dick Benson. He ignored me. Looking straight ahead he said, "This ain't no place fer a kid. Like as not you'll get killed in a few days. If I don't know ya, I won't haf'ta mourn ya."

         "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, too, Mr. Benson. We might as well be friends until the burial though, don't you think?" I said amicably.

         The other men laughed and teased Benson until, finally, he broke a grin and stuck out his hand to be shook. Riding beside me, Lieutenant Crenshaw nudged my knee with his own, letting me know I'd handled the situation as he would have.

         We rode and rode, crossing streams and rivers and land so flat you could see for miles, living off game to accompany our beans and hardtack, always behind the Comanches by a matter of days according to settlers left alive to tell us.

         Hundreds of miles passed under the hooves of our horses as we tracked them all the way north to a small settlement about eight miles west of Fort Worth.

         The town sported a general store, a livery stable and a restaurant. A portly man approached as we rode in. "Where you from, boys?" he called out.

         "Down Nueces County way," Boots said, leaning over the high horn of his saddle. "We're Rangers, tracking Comanches."

         "Rangers! Wonderful!. I'm Otis Wycliff, unofficial Mayor here. We've had some Indian activity lately and the boys over at Fort Worth don't see fit to come help. There's fewer than forty of us here...farmers...not gun hands. Any sizable force of savages could annihilate us within days. To be honest, we're afraid."

         I watched a drop of sweat roll from the top of Wycliff's pink, hairless scalp as Boots climbed out of the saddle. "Lieutenant Boots Crenshaw, Mr. Wycliff. Bein' afraid just makes good sense when you're out-numbered and the soldier boys are too busy sweepin' the parade grounds to help," Boots said, shaking hands.

         "You'll help?"

         "Sure try. Comanches?" Boots questioned.

         "Yes. Their chief is called Iron Vest."

         Boots nodded. "Mean, heartless bassard. He's needed killin' for ah long time."

         "He's bad, but one of his braves is the one stealing from some of the out-lying farms. And a girl is missing. Jenny McDonald. Thirteen years old and pretty as a speckled pup. She went out to milk the cows three days ago. Her parents haven't seen her since."

         Boots chewed chapped skin from his lower lip and shook his head slowly. "Who's this Indian ya think's responsible?"

         A cold shiver shot through me when Wycliff answered. "Rides Fast. Young savage. Afraid of nothing, we hear."

         I left my saddle. "Trace Timberlane, Mr. Wycliff," I introduced myself. "Rides Fast was with the Indians who killed my family. He wasn't much older than me, but he killed my mother when I was just a boy. Even if these other men don't want to stay, I will. And Rides Fast better get afraid of me real quick."

         No man of our group considered heading back south until the McDonald girl or her remains were found.

         We moseyed over to the small, clean restaurant and pulled two tables together. Wycliff waved to a slender man with a long, drooping mustache to join us. "This is Otto Kray. Otto was one of the first to settle here and has a sizable spread just east of town. He's seen the Indians." Wycliff pulled a chair out for Kray and scooted his girth over to make room.

         Kray folded himself into the chair. "I've seen 'em, right enough. Usually ten or twelve of them in a party. Hot-headed young bucks. The leader calls himself Rides Fast."

         "Were they on your property?" Boots asked.

         "Twice. Both times I was lucky enough to see them coming. By the time they rode into the yard my wife and son had rifle barrels sticking out the windows, and I had a Colt in my hand and two more in my belt. If they'd started anything they'da lost most of their number." He moved his chair back and stood. "I need to get back now. Hate to leave the family alone for very long. You men looking for them?"

         Wycliff smiled, showing a lot of white teeth. "They're Rangers, Otto."

         Kray looked from man to man sitting around the table, appraising us. "Then it's already done, ain't it? Indians might as well go bury themselves...they're already dead." He nodded and walked away.

         A smell that made my mouth fill with saliva and near made me dizzy, rose up from the large porcelain bowl a heavy-set, but very pretty lady set in front of me on the table. "Chicken and dumplings, sweetheart. You need some motherin', you're so bone-thin. Dig in," she said.

         The other men watched me spoon in the first delicious mouthful; watched my eyes close in pure delight as I chewed the tender chicken and flavorful dumplings. I moaned aloud.

         Boots removed his hat and tossed it on the floor beside his chair. "Ma'am if you don't bring us four more of those pronto, I don't know if I can keep the boys from killin' this cotton-topped kid and takin' his."

         "Amen!" Cuss called out.

         Two hours later, filled to the gills with chicken and dumplings, hot cornbread, gallons of coffee, and a warm peach cobbler that caused the normally reserved Elija Browse to propose mock marriage to the restaurant's owner--Miss Abigail Baines--we made camp on the outskirts of town and slept like children.

         We'd need the rest in the days ahead.

         Next morning, we set out to find the McDonald place with the directions given us by Mr. Wycliff. Two hours later we arrived at the cabin.

         The missing girl's father seemed an old man to have such a young daughter, but his wife was probably half his age. "Sneakin' savages took her right from the barn while she was milkin'. Not more'n twenty yards from the house." He lit a weathered pipe and waved us to sit on his porch, out of the burning sun. "I found the tracks of unshod horses and the spilled milk bucket when I went looking for her."

         Boots scratched his sun chapped neck. "What's she look like, Mr. McDonald."

         McDonald exhaled, as though he knew this was useless; thought the girl long dead. "Tall for a girl. She has her Ma's fair hair and blue eyes. Awfully pretty girl." When he looked up I saw twin trails of dampness in the dust on his face. "Bring her back, Lieutenant and," McDonald swallowed hard, "anything I got is yours."

         Elija Browse found the tracks in less than a quarter of an hour. He pointed west. "They're headed back toward the Brazos probably. Two day ride. Nine or ten of 'em. Bet they've got a camp further north."

         We rode for fifteen hours straight, knowing the girl could already be dead, was probably dead, in fact, but not wanting to waste a minute that could be the difference between her living and dying. After a quick camp and four hours of sleep, Boots roused us again. "Let's go. Ya can sleep in the saddle, boys."

         And we did. Slouched forward, fists wrapped around saddle horns, we dozed fitfully as our horses walked, drawing us ever closer to Rides Fast and his band.

         In my dream I stood squared off against the scar-faced Indian in a bare-knuckle fight. His powerfully thrown punches landed against my face with the impact of butterfly wings. He couldn't hurt me. My punches, however, were no better; had no more effect upon Rides Fast than if I'd hit him with a goose feather. As I wondered about these things his knife slid through the soft flesh of my belly and ripped upward between the center of my ribs, slicing my heart and lungs apart.

         I jumped in the saddle, nearly falling from the sorrel's back. From the front of our formation I saw Boots looking back at me. I must have cried out in my sleep. Even after all these years Rides Fast scared me. I realized I'd never be able to get on with my life so long as Rides Fast remained alive to bring back the ghosts of my parents and sister and the horrible way they died.

         I unstrung my canteen and swigged warm water. With a jolt, the canteen was yanked from my fingers. It lay dribbling water into the sand, pierced clean through by a Comanche arrow! "Indians!" I yelled, looking around frantically to see from where the arrow came. An eagle feather, worn in a headband, appeared over the top of a nearby ravine. I winged a shot that way and the feather ducked down.

         Cuss and Elija left their saddles and, tugging the reins, pulled their horses to the ground. The veteran Rangers took cover behind the wild-eyed, kicking animals. I saw Boots do the same.

         Dick Benson slipped from his saddle in slow motion, his foot hung in the stirrup. His horse ran, dragging Benson awkwardly, stepping on the man when his body slid beneath the horse's hooves. I shivered when I saw the arrow that brought Benson down. The arrowhead stuck out of his left ear. The feathered end protruded from his right ear. At least death had come quickly.

         Spurring the sorrel, I clamped the reins between my teeth, filled both my hands with .44 caliber Walker Colt revolvers, and charged the ravine. Boots called out behind me, but I ignored him.

         The eagle feather rose up again and I put a ball through its owner's skull. An Indian stood and loosed an arrow in my direction. Firing both guns, I saw twin holes appear in the brave's upper chest before he crashed to his knees.

         The dead Indian's arrow caught the knot in the bandanna around my neck and ripped it away. Fire flashed in my flesh from the friction burn. Taking the reins in my left hand, I urged my horse to jump the ravine where the Indians lay in wait. My sorrel, tired and winded, fell short, smashing into the far inner wall of the ravine and falling backward. I leaped away before he crushed me, and crouched, awaiting an attack.

         Two braves were quick to oblige. Knives raised, they raced toward me along the ravine's sandy floor. I cocked and squeezed the trigger of the gun in my right hand.

         Nothing happened! The cylinder pin had broken and the cylinder was gone. I hurriedly dropped the useless weapon and fired my other pistol. The smaller of the two braves went down with a slug in the face. The other, a heavily muscled, nearly naked savage, flung his knife.

         I ducked low and dodged to the left. My hat flew from my head, impaled on the Indian's shining blade. Lined up in my sights, I was about to send him to the happy hunting ground when I saw the long scar on his face.

         "Rides Fast!" I yelled.

         Rides Fast snorted and puffed out his chest. An evil snarl twisted his lips. "How do you know me, white hair?"

         I almost exerted the fraction of an ounce of pressure it would take to pull the trigger and send Rides Fast to hell in a hurry. But I wanted him to know. "Near San Antonio, when I was eight years old, your band killed my father and my baby sister. But you killed my mother. Put an arrow through her neck," I hissed, the scene flashing through my mind all over again. "Remember?"

         Rides Fast relaxed his body, becoming almost at ease. He touched his fingers to the scar on his right cheek and nodded. "I remember. One of the Ranger devils gave me this mark. But I also remember it because it was my first kill. How amusing it was to watch the blood spew from the ugly white woman..."

         Shooting him wouldn't satisfy my need for revenge. I ran, screaming, and smashed my shoulder into Rides Fast's stomach.

         He rolled backward, got a moccasined foot in my groin, and used my own forward motion to throw me several feet.

         I landed flat on my back and the air puffed from my lungs in one long, painful burst.

         My revolver spun from my hand.

         Rides Fast flung himself at my gasping frame, his hands doubled into rock-hard fists. He straddled my waist with his knees, trapped my arms by my sides, and pummeled my face and stomach with heavy blows.

         I tasted blood, hot and salty, spring from my split lip. My left cheekbone was ripe with searing pain. Through the cloud of near unconsciousness, I heard gunfire. Boots, Cuss and Elija were fighting for their own lives, I guessed, and wouldn't be coming to my rescue.

         Time to be the man Boots had taught me to be.

         With every ounce of strength I possessed, I jacked my knee upward into Rides Fast's kidney. He grimaced, teeth bared, and clutched his side.

         I whipped my right arm free, drew it back and caught Rides Fast with an upper-cut beneath the jaw that jarred my shoulder.

         His dark eyes went out of focus as he fell away from me. I rolled atop his muscled chest and pelted him with angry blow after angry blow, trying to soothe the ache that had filled me for so long. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his head whipped from side-to-side with the force of my punches. "Your turn to die, Rides Fast," I breathed through clenched teeth.

         I thought he was near death, but he moved like a snake. His hand closed on the hilt of my Bowie knife and drew it from its sheath. He grinned as he thrust it upward toward my belly.

         My dream seemed to be coming true with deadly accuracy.

         I grabbed his wrist with both hands and twisted the knife away from me. The choice was his--drop the blade or have his wrist snapped. He dropped the knife and smashed his elbow into my throat. Tiny bright lights popped behind my eyes at the pain.

         Rides Fast was reaching for my knife, ready to finish me, when a shot rang out and the sand sprayed up beside him. His head snapped up and he quickly scrambled off of me, ran to the side of the ravine and clawed his way toward the top. Once over, he would mount his waiting pony and live up to his name. And my revenge would continue to fester within me. No. No longer.

         I fought away the dizziness, grabbed up my knife and, lying flat on my back, flung it with all the hate and hurt I'd carried for so long.

         Almost over the lip of the ravine, Rides Fast jerked straight. His hands flailed at my knife, now piercing his throat clean through, as his arrow had pierced the throat of my mother. He turned, a look of amazement twisting his dying face. Our eyes met and I yelled, "I win, Rides Fast! And you die!"

         He crumpled and rolled to the bottom of the ravine, leaving a trail of scarlet coloring the sliding sand.

         Boots and Elija came to my side and helped me to my feet, guns drawn. Boots said, squinting. "I got off the one shot but ran out'ta ammunition before the Indian took off up the ravine. "Ya okay?"

         I bent down, reclaimed my knife-cut hat, and slapped it against my legs, dusting myself off. "Yes, sir," I croaked, spitting sand.

         Elija bent over the body of Rides Fast and yanked my knife from his throat. "He's right better off than this Injun, I'd say. Good throw, Trace."

         Boots spat a stream of brown tobacco juice. "We managed to rid the territory of eleven savages. None of 'em got away."

         I retrieved my knife from Elija and turned Rides Fast over face up with the toe of my boot. "Better than that," I said, nodding toward the dead Indian. "We got Rides Fast."

         Boots took a look, saw the scar and slapped me on the back. "You got him, Trace. Just fittin'. Things are going to be better for you now, son."

         I nodded, pleased that I'd avenged my family, and pleased to have Boots Crenshaw call me "son".

         Only then did I notice Cuss's absence. I stared into Boot's eyes. "Cuss?" I asked, fearing the worst.

         "He's alright. Watchin' the McDonald girl, twenty yards from here."

         "She's alive?" I gasped. The Comanches weren't given to letting prisoners live very long.

         "Yep. Damn'dest thing. She seems fine as frog hair."

         I hunted down my guns and we crawled out of the ravine, leaving the dead Indians for the buzzards, then walked to where Cuss lounged beneath a gnarled mesquite tree. He smiled at something the girl was saying.

         No, not a girl--an angel--with a sweet, round face framed by sunshine ringlets of golden curls. She spoke vivaciously, using lots of hand gestures. Cuss seemed thoroughly beguiled. He waved us to pull up a piece of dirt and sit. "Jenny, this young man with old man hair and a face that looks like he rode into a low-hanging branch, is Trace Timberlane."

         Her blue eyes dropped for only a fraction of an instant, then she boldly returned my stare. "Good day, Mr. Timberlane. So glad you came along," she said, as though I had dropped in for high tea instead of helping save her from the dirty redskins.

         Boots tossed me his kerchief and canteen to clean the blood off my face. I hurt all over.

         Cuss spat tobacco, wiped his chin whiskers, and leaned forward, closer to the girl. "Tell 'em what you did to stay alive, Jenny. Just tell 'em!"

         Her cheeks went crimson with the attention, but she straightened her long yellow skirt and sort of rocked back and forth. "Have you ever heard of Scheherazade, the wife of the Sultan of Persia who stayed alive by telling him a series of stories for a thousand and one nights? Each night she would tell part of a story, but would leave him in suspense about the ending until the next night."

         "The Arabian Nights. I've heard about them from Boots's wife, Kate," I said.

         "Then you know how I kept the Indians entertained. The big Indian, Rides Fast, knew English. He would tell the others what I said in Comanche. I used some of the stories from the Arabian Nights and made up some of my own. The Indians were like little children, listening to every word." A frown creased the space between her wide-set eyes. "Did you have to kill them?"

         Boots stood. "Yes, ma'am, we did. Or they would'a killed us. And you, too, when they grew tired ah your stories. But not before making you wish you was already dead." He turned to me. "Trace, round up our horses and ah Indian pony for Jenny. Let's get her home."

         "What about Dick Benson?" I asked.

         Cuss waved his hand toward the south. "His horse was still a'runnin' last I seen, with Dick caught in the stirrup. He belongs to the prairie now."

         The ride back to the McDonald cabin passed all too quickly. Jenny's presence made hours turn to minutes and the way she smiled at me, showing deep dimples in her cheeks, made my heart race. Too bad she was just a child, though almost fourteen was marriageable age in these parts.

         Two days later we returned Jenny to her grateful, astonished parents. They insisted we join them for dinner, which we did. Afterwards, Jenny and I went out in the yard to catch fireflies. When I wasn't paying attention, Jenny turned to me and planted a sweet, quick kiss on my lips.

         The sensation lasted me all the way back to Nueces County, and I decided I'd be returning north before long.

         I also decided Indians, snakes and badmen of all descriptions might not be the most dangerous things a man could encounter in Texas.

The End

Author's note: This story is a condensed version of a 26,000 word novelette titled "Timberlane's Trails."






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