Lone Star Ranger : A Ranger to Ride With (9781310568404) (11 page)

“Mebbe we’d get better chuck if we made Nate
the cook and George his helper,” one of the men said.

“Just try’n get a piece of apple pie
tonight, Duffy,” George growled.

“Apple pie? Quit tellin’ your tall tales,
George. You don’t have any apple pie.”

“Sure do. Bought some dried apples last time
I got supplies, and was savin’ ’em up until today. Baked up those
pies in my Dutch ovens. Nate, you’ll get Duffy’s piece. That’ll
teach him to smart mouth the cook.”

“That’s enough,” Quincy reiterated. “Others
are Shorty Beach.”

“Already met the youngster, Cap’n. Seems
like a nice kid.”

“Thanks for your opinion, Shorty. Now shut
up and let me finish. Rest of the men are Joe Duffy, Dakota
Stevens, Tex Carlson, Bill Tuttle, and Hank Glynn. Finally we have
Percy Leaping Buck, our scout. Andy Pratt, Tad Cooper, Phil Knight,
and Ken Demarest are on sentry duty. Nate, you’ll meet them later.
We’re one man short. Mark Thornton died in a fight over to
Junction. He got the man who shot him before he died, though. Men,
let’s all welcome Nate to the Rangers.”

The men let up a shout. Once they were done,
Nate nodded.

“I appreciate that, all of you. I know I’m
mighty young, and mighty green, but I’m gonna try my hardest to be
the best Ranger I can.”

“That’s all any of us ask from you, Nate,”
Quincy said. “Men, while he’s here, Nate’s gonna help out around
the camp anywhere he can. But his main job is to learn to be a
Ranger. I want all of you to help with that, and none of you to
take advantage of him by pilin’ on work you should be doin’
yourselves. You all were rookies once and had to learn, just like
Nate. I expect you to make that easier for him. All right?"

"You can count on all of us, Cap'n," Bob
answered.

"Good. Now finish your supper, then y’all
can palaver with Nate for awhile."

***

After supper was finished some of the men
retired early, while others sat around, smoking and talking or
telling stories. Dakota Stevens pulled out a harmonica and began
playing it softly. The camp fell silent as the men listened to him.
Finally, after an hour, Jeb touched Nate's shoulder.

"Time to turn in," he said. "You've got a
long day ahead. High time you learned how to shoot."

"Got a question for you, Jeb," Nate said as
they walked over to their tents.

"Go ahead."

"Percy Leaping Buck. He's an Indian."

"That's right. He's a Tonkawa. If you can
get him to give you some lessons in trackin', consider yourself
lucky. He's one of the best there is."

"But I thought the Rangers and Indians were
enemies, always at war with each other."

"Not all Indians," Jeb explained. "Sure, the
Comanches, Kiowas, and Apaches hate the white man, not without
reason I might add, since we're pushin' them off their lands, but
other tribes don't. There were friendly Cherokees forced over here
from further East, then they got pushed outta Texas too. Shame what
was done to ’em. And we've always gotten along with the Tonkawas.
Now, the Karankawas, that's another story. They were a real warrior
society. Cannibals, too. They'd eat their enemy after they killed
him. And they preyed on the Tonkawas. That's one reason the Tonks
and Rangers have always been friends, because we took on the
Karankawas and whipped 'em."

"I understand. Got another question."

"You're just full of 'em, ain't ya, kid? Go
ahead."

"How come you wear a badge, but I ain't seen
one on any of the other men?"

"Oh, some of 'em have 'em. They just don't
wear 'em around camp or out on the trail unless they need to. That
badge makes a nice, shiny target. Only reason mine's still pinned
to my vest is I didn't bother to take it off yet. But you're right,
most of the men don't. More and more are startin' to, though. They
either have 'em carved from Mexican five peso coins or even make
one themselves.” He smiled as they reached the tents. “I guess
you’ve got enough to think on tonight. Good night, Nate. I'll see
you in the mornin'."

"'Night, Jeb." Nate ducked into his tent,
sat on his bunk, pulled off his boots and gunbelt, and lay back on
the mattress. Ten minutes later he was snoring.

Nate was awakened by George roughly shaking
his shoulder.

"Huh?" he mumbled.

"Time to rise and shine, sonny," George
said.

"What? It's still dark."

"False dawn's already grayin' up in the
east," George said. "That means it's time to get the fire started
and breakfast cookin'. Time to get outta that cozy bunk and get to
work. Later on, you'll gather some firewood. We go through plenty
of that."

"All right, all right." Nate sat up and
pulled on his boots. The rest of his tentmates were still sleeping
soundly. He followed George to the firepit, where the fire was
already blazing.

"Taters in that sack there. Knife next to
that. Last of 'em until we get to town, and who knows when that'll
be. Don't need to peel 'em, but cut 'em up, then toss 'em in that
pot sittin' in the fire. Gonna boil 'em up to go with the bacon
this mornin'. I'll show you how to mix up biscuit dough and make
coffee, too. And this is for you for helpin' out." He handed Nate a
peppermint stick. "Hid it from the rest of the men, so keep shut
about it. If they knew I took the candy from the Arbuckle's and
gave it to a rookie they'd have my hide for certain."

Arbuckle's was the favored brand of coffee
in the West. Every package contained a peppermint stick. Cowboys
would fight over who got to be the one who received the treat.
Nate’s eyes grew moist as he took the candy. It brought back
memories of home, and how his ma saved out the peppermint for him.
He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Thanks, George." Nate sat down, picked up
the knife, and began cutting the potatoes. He would work at that
for the next hour, then help George mix the biscuit dough and get
that in the two Dutch ovens. By that time the sun was up and the
men were emerging from their tents. They straggled over to get
their breakfast, most of them still bleary-eyed. They mumbled their
thanks when George and Nate handed them their plates. They ate
mostly in silence, then when finished tossed the metal dishes and
mugs in a wreck pan and drifted off to tend to their chores.

"Take all these dishes down to the river and
wash 'em, Nate," George ordered. "After that's done, you can gather
some firewood. Bring back a whole mess of it."

"You need more?" Nate asked. There was
already a large stack of wood a few feet from the firepit.

"We go through a lot of wood," George
answered. "Be grateful you’ve got plenty around here. If we were up
in the Panhandle or out on the Staked Plain, you'd be gatherin'
buffalo or cow chips for fuel."

"Buffalo or cow chips?"

"Dung. Dried manure. About the only fuel you
can find out on the plains."

"Then I'm glad I'm gatherin' wood."

"I thought you might be."

Nate picked up the crate full of dishes and
started for the river. Jeb met him halfway there.

"See George has you workin' hard already,"
he said.

"Yeah. After I wash these I've gotta get
more firewood," Nate replied.

"If you have time to do that," Jeb said.
"More important you learn how to shoot. Even if you’re just stayin’
in camp, you still need to be able to defend yourself. Soon as
you’re done with those dishes meet me at your tent. We'll get your
pistol and rifle. We'll check on our horses, then I'll show you how
to handle a gun."

"What about the firewood?"

"I'll square things with George. You're
gonna learn to be a Texas Ranger, not a Lone Star dishwasher."

"All right. Thanks, Jeb."

***

After washing the dishes, Nate headed for
his tent at a trot. Jeb was already waiting for him.

"Take it easy, Nate," he chided. "You'll be
plumb wore out before we even start."

"At least the boy's eager to learn," Jim
Kelly said from where he lay on his bunk, reading a copy of
Shakespeare's
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
"Nate, he
continued, "Couple more days and I'll be able to take those
stitches out of your scalp. I'll bet your lookin' forward to that.
I'd imagine they've been pullin', and are plenty itchy
besides."

"They sure are, Jim. Been everything I can
do to keep from scratchin' my head or rippin’ these bandages off,"
Nate answered.

"Well, soon as the stitches are out I'll
give you a bar of lye soap. You'll need to go down to the river and
scrub your head good. There's liable to be lice in your hair by
now. Got to get rid of those. Horseflies and mosquitoes and gnats
and chiggers are bad enough. You don't need lice too."

"Stop scarin' the kid, Jim," Jeb said.
"Nate, get your guns."

Nate picked up his gunbelt from the bottom
of his bunk and buckled it around his waist. Jeb had already
punched another hole in the leather to accommodate Nate's waist,
which was slimmer than Jonathan's. Nate got his Winchester from
under the bunk, then he and Jeb went to the rope corral to check on
their horses. When Jeb whistled sharply, Dudley lifted his head,
whinnied, and pushed his way through the herd. Big Red was at his
heels. They trotted up to the fence, nickering.

"How ya doin’, Dud?” Jeb asked his paint. He
gave the horse a kiss on the nose and a piece of biscuit. Alongside
him, Nate rubbed Big Red’s muzzle and also gave him some biscuit.
The dead horse thief’s emaciated mare wandered up to the fence, her
eyes pleading.

“Here ya go, girl.” Jeb gave her a piece of
biscuit, which the mare eagerly took. “You’re safe now.”

“What
is
gonna happen to her?” Nate
asked. “She seems like a nice horse. It’s a dirty shame she was
treated the way she was.”

“We’ll fatten her up and one of the men will
take her. Bein’ a Ranger’s horse is almost as dangerous as bein’ a
Ranger,” Jeb said. “Lotta times a man’ll shoot at the horse, rather
than the rider. A man on a runnin’ horse is almost impossible to
hit. His horse is a bigger target, and once you set a man afoot
he’s easier to run down…or
gun
down. And a lotta horses get
crippled up chasin’ outlaws. Sooner or later someone’ll need to
replace his horse, and she’ll be ready. Meantime, speakin’ of
ready, let’s teach you how to shoot.”

Jeb led Nate over to a clearing alongside
the river, a few hundred yards from camp. Several of the other
Rangers tagged along to watch. When they arrived, Jeb pointed to a
log he had set on a pair of stumps. He had poked holes in the log
with his knife and set twigs upright in those.

“Nate, since you’ve hardly shot a gun
before—”

"Never shot a gun before," Nate corrected.
"Well other than when I shot that man after they killed my
brother."

"Never before? Thought you'd done at least
some shootin' to make a shot like that."

"Nope. None."

“Did you at least watch your brother
practice?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, then, at least you should know you
have to thumb back the hammer on that S & W single action, then
pull the trigger.”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now there’s a lot to learn about
accurate shootin’, especially with a rifle,” Jeb said. “You’ve got
to figure in windage, bullet drop over distance, which way your
target’s movin’, and how fast. Then you’ve got recoil. We’re not
gonna worry about all that today, since mostly we’ll be
concentratin’ on usin’ your six-gun. Main thing to remember with a
six-gun is it ain’t all that accurate at any sort of distance. Once
you get past thirty feet or so with a six-gun, your chances of
hittin’ your target drop real fast. And if you’re tryin’ to down a
man, especially one who’s shootin’ back at you, you aim for his
chest or belly. Lotta men’ll try to aim for the head, but that’s a
big mistake. Too easy to miss. You want to aim for the biggest
target, which is the chest or belly. I’ve seen sharpshooters durin’
the War who could pick off a man at five hundred yards by puttin’ a
bullet in his head, but most men can’t shoot that good, and they
don’t have weapons that accurate. Plus, those sharpshooters’
targets were generally never movin’.”

“Sounds like this might be tough,” Nate
said.

“It could be. But you’ve got a good eye, and
with a lotta practice you should get the hang of it. That’s why
we’re gonna start off with your six-gun, workin’ on hittin’ a
stationary target. Once you’ve got that down, then we can move on
to hittin’ a movin’ target, shootin’ on the run, firin’ from a
prone position, droppin’ to your belly then rollin’ and firin’, and
even shootin’ from the back of a runnin’ horse, which is dang nigh
impossible to do accurately. You’re not gonna worry about any of
that right now, just the job at hand. You’ve got your gun loaded,
right?”

“Yeah, did that last night.”

“You have a bullet in the chamber under the
hammer?”

Many men left the chamber under the hammer
empty for safety, only putting a sixth bullet in their gun when
certain they would be using it.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good. Now take the gun out of your holster
and aim it, slow and easy. Don’t worry about speed right now.
That’ll come later, when we work on your fast draw. Accuracy is far
more important than speed, so that’s what I want from you. In a
gunfight, it’s usually the man who takes an extra second to make
sure of his target who’s the survivor. And never fan the hammer.
That’s the fastest way to get yourself killed, when the guy
shootin’ back takes careful aim while you’re blastin’ away wildly
and puts a bullet through your guts. Now, aim your gun, and try to
hit as many of those twigs as you can.”

“All right.” Nate braced himself, steadied
his hand, and aimed. He fired off six shots in succession. One of
them just clipped the top of a twig, the others either disappearing
into the woods or burying themselves in the log. Nate muttered to
himself.