The Ranger

Cordero Roberts and his pursuit of Oz.

Texas Ranger Cordero “Cord” Roberts never figured he’d freeze his boots off in Michigan. But here he was, scraping frost off a borrowed Ford while the locals marveled at his Stetson.

All because Oliver “Oz” Zalles, a rail-thin inmate with a knack for slipping chains, decided to vanish up here. Last words he left on the cell wall? “Nobody’s home.” Cord had seen dumber taunts, but not many.

Now, Cord stood on a pine-shadowed porch near Lake Superior, boot tapping while a deputy knocked politely.

“Think he’s in there?” the deputy whispered.

Cord gave him a flat look. “Oh, I’m sure he’s inside making us coffee right now.”

The deputy flushed, shifting his weight. “Sorry.”

Cord lifted a gloved hand and knocked, harder.

"Nobody’s home, huh?” Cord muttered, pulling the toothpick from his lips and flicking it into the wet grass. “Ain’t that always the way.”

Inside, the house smelled like wet paper and cheap whiskey. A sleeping bag lay near the heater, a single sock draped over a chair to dry. Cord’s boots creaked on the linoleum as he scanned the room, eyes narrowing at the back door’s mud tracks leading to the basement.

The Ranger sighed. “Always the basement. Always.”

He pulled his revolver, ducked under the doorframe, and descended the narrow stairs. The lightbulb swung, revealing a pair of wide, panicked eyes in the corner, holding a kitchen knife like it was worth a damn.

“Oz,” Cord drawled, stepping forward, “Go ahead and put that down.”

The prisoner lunged, screaming, but Cord was already moving, the revolver’s bark cutting through the basement like thunder. The knife clattered to the concrete. Cord stood over the man, breath fogging in the cold.

“Shoulda stayed in Texas, Oz,” he muttered, slipping the cuffs on with steady hands.