North to the Salt Fork (4 page)

Jack handed the reins to Craig. “I'll only be a minute.”

Jack caught up with the young ranger in a few steps, and they went to where the covered bodies lay.

“Don't disturb them,” a thickset woman warned as she straightened up from a pan she was tending over the fire, and brandished a large wooden spoon at them.

“I only want to see their wounds,” Jack reassured her.

She cut an evil look at him. “You a ranger too?”

“I've been one in the past.”

“Well, then, go ahead and help yourself.” She puckered her lips. “But it ain't pretty.”

Jack knelt and lifted the first shroud. It was the body of an older man, most likely Jason Holmes. A large patch of the man's gray-black hair was gone, but the wound hadn't bled, so he was already dead when they scalped him. The copper smell of death made Jack swallow hard a time or two before he moved to check the next body.

It was a woman, roughly the same age as the man. Her eyes were closed from the beating they'd given her, and she'd also been scalped after she died. Unusual for Comanches not to scalp their victims alive, Jack thought. They liked to hear them scream. But the rest of the knife work looked Injun enough. When he rose, the ranger captain joined him.

“See anything but blood and a mess?”

“Yes.” Jack looked around to be certain he wouldn't be overheard. “Both were killed and
then
scalped.”

“Hmm. How do you know that?”

“The scalping never drew any blood. Not that I can see.”

“Well, a scalpin's a scalpin', ain't it? Don't make no difference when it was done, er . . .”

“Captain Jack Starr.” He stuck out his hand to the captain, who shook it firmly.

“Captain Dully McIntyre.”

“In my experience, Captain McIntyre, Comanches like to scalp their victims alive so they can hear them scream.”

McIntyre folded his arms over his broad chest and nodded. “If you were with Steele, you saw enough of this to know your business. Who did it, then?”

Jack shrugged. “The ones who herded the horses out of here, I'd say.”

McIntyre pondered the information. “I can loan you three privates, well-mounted, to follow them, if'n you'll lead them.”

“Let me ask Craig if he wants to go along,” Jack said as he turned to head back to his horse. “Oh, and, Captain, don't say a word about the scalping.”

“I won't.” The big man lowered his voice. “If I even thought a white man had done this, I'd stake him on an anthill.”

“Ranger, here, take this food and eat it on the way.” The fat woman handed him a plate laden with food.

“But, ma'am, how will I return the—” Jack stopped short as he looked over the scrambled eggs, crisply browned bacon, flaky biscuits and thick gravy, and his mouth flooded with saliva.

“I ain't worried none about one tin plate,” she said, shooing him off. “Now you go on and get them devils that done this terrible thing.”

Jack thanked her and headed toward Craig, who was busy eating with a red-cheeked, chubby farm wife.

“What're we doing next?” he asked between bites.

“Captain McIntyre's given us three rangers to track down the horse thieves. You want to come along?”

Craig's Adam's apple bobbed and he nodded, swallowing hard. “Sure, I want in on the deal. But they've got a powerful head start on us already.”

“I know it. Borrow me a rifle and a box of ammo. We leave in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” Craig saluted.

Jack stopped. “I ain't your captain, Craig.”

“You'd make for a good one. From here on, you're Captain Starr.”

Jack shook his head. “Eat your food. Tell them troopers that're heading over here to ready themselves for the ride, Sarge.”

Craig smiled broadly. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, Craig, you be careful out there.” Craig's woman fussed over him worriedly, like she was already his missus.

But before he left, Jack wanted to see Hiram one more time.

Hiram stood in the middle of a small crowd, leaning back on his heels, running his thumbs under his yellow suspenders and pontificating aloud as if he were the boss of the country. At the edge of the crowd Jack picked at his plate of food, waiting for Hiram to realize who'd joined his small congregation.

After a few minutes Hiram caught sight of him. “Starr, is that you?”

“Hiram,” Jack began. “Five of us going after those horses. I wanted to offer you the option of joining us.”

“Ah, er . . . you see—” Hiram colored, fumbling for an excuse.

“Don't worry. I understand you're busy collecting your collateral here. Never mind. We'll handle it.” Jack walked away, but not before catching the low guffaws of the gathered men. He knew that everyone within twenty miles would know the story of his challenge before nightfall. It was exactly what he wanted.

On his way to mount Mac, he took the proffered rifle and cartridges from Craig's woman and hugged her. “Thank you. This'll go a long way toward bringing the Holmeses' killers to justice.”

“Watch out for him for me.” She grabbed Jack's shirt-sleeve, glancing over at Craig.

“He'll be fine—”

“Marsha. Marsha Crown's my name. My first man was killed in Mississippi. I can't afford to lose another.”

“Don't worry.”

“I sure hope you're right. But it's going to worry me plumb to death until he gets back alive.”

Craig's safety, like that of the others, would worry Jack too. He shoved the Winchester in the scabbard, swung his leg over the cantle, and nodded to Marsha before signaling to his men. They rode out on a long trot, with a packhorse following close behind the party. Good of McIntyre for thinking of supplies
,
Jack thought.

 

The killers' tracks headed west and Jack kept expecting them to turn north, where the Comanches typically settled. But on the second day, the trail turned south and Jack knew his instincts had been on target.

“Captain, where do you think they're going?” the towheaded Arnold boy asked as the path turned.

“Looks like they're not going out on the Llano Estacada, are they?”

The boy, who looked too young even to shave, shook his head. “No, they're sure not. Perplexing, ain't it?”

“Plumb perplexing,” Jack agreed.

“I think they're going to Mexico,” short, squat Jangles Townsend chimed in.

“Craig, what notion have you got?” Jack asked.

“I'm not sure, sir. But I'd sure like a cool drink right now.”

Jack checked Mac. “I think we'll find them and your drink on the Llano River tonight. You boys ready for a real hot-fire fight?”

Dexter Cotton, the quietest of the three young rangers, drew out his cap-and-ball pistol to check the loads. “I sure got me an itching to get on with it.”

Jack nodded. “Any of you boys ever been under fire before?'

“We had one Injun fight,” Arnold said. “Up on the San Saba. We all three were there. We kilt one Injun and we got two of our horses shot out from under us.”

“Boys, if you can't see a rider clear, shoot his horse,” Jack commanded. “It makes him a foot soldier.”

Cotton hooted. “I never thought of that. Damn sight bigger target too.”

“Well, those Comanche shot your horses and ended the chase, right?”

“They damn sure did,” Jangles Townsend agreed.

“Then you got to figure that the same'll work in reverse,” Jack reasoned.

“Well, just how in hell's name do we keep them from shooting our horses?” Craig asked.

“Shoot 'em first is what you've got to do,” Cotton said, as if the answer were obvious.

Jack found it hard not to smile at the young man's answer. “Well, let's try to do that, then.”

They all agreed.

 

After dark, as they neared the Llano River, Jack sensed they were close to the stolen horse herd. In the distance, they could hear the new horses fighting with the rustlers' animals. They slowed their pace and Jack held a finger to his lips, motioning for his men to stay quiet. Jack and Jangles dismounted and on foot climbed a hill that overlooked the riverbank to size up the camp.

Through the dark, Jack made out six figures on the bank. One of the men was playing a guitar and singing a Spanish folk song near a blazing campfire, three others lounged nearby, and the last two tended the horses as they grazed.

“Six of 'em?” Jangles asked.

“Same as I got,” Jack confirmed. Even in the starlight he could see how upset the young ranger was.

“How'd you figure out this bunch of Mexicans done that murdering? You think they figured we'd put the blame on the damn Injuns?”

“Yep, I think you're right about that. But we've got them anyhow.”

Jangles nodded in the starlight, still taken aback by their discovery. He swore under his breath.

“We better go back and get the boys ready,” Jack said, heading back to the rest of the party.

“If they're like me and learn what we know, I can tell you they'll be ready real quick.” They slipped up the draw and made it back to the other rangers, who had set up a quick camp.

Jack explained the situation. At least two of them were boys, even younger than Arnold, but still killers nonetheless.

“Don't shoot each other in the excitement and don't let any of them escape. Count your shots. A six-shooter is worthless when it's empty, so always save the last cartridge. I'd use my rifle first, then the Colt.”

He looked them over sternly once more. “Alright, let's go get 'em. Jangles, you and Cotton take the right flank and get those two guarding the herd. Arnold, you and Sergeant Craig take the left side and deal with the ones near the campfire. I'll come straight down. Whatever you do, don't shoot each other. You'll hear my owl signal when it's time to act.”

Jangles and Cotton set out to the right while Craig went left, motioning for Arnold to follow on his heels. Jack walked straight toward the camp, dodging from cedar to cedar for cover until he was close enough to hear their Spanish chatter.

Rifle cocked and ready at the hip, he dropped to his knees and gave his best owl hoot.

“¿Que pasa?”
The men asked in confusion. Before they knew it, gunfire erupted around the camp.

Concentrating hard in the darkness, Jack aimed his rifle wherever the Mexicans' pistols flared. Shots filled the air in the darkness for a minute, echoing through the night. Then there was silence. As Jack approached the camp, he could hear several of the killers groaning as they clutched their wounds and writhed on the ground.

“Jangles, you and Cotton all right?” Jack called into the air.

After a long pause, Jangles shouted back, “Yes sir. We've got them herders.”

“Craig, how about you and Arnold?”

“Everything's fine here. Arnold's making us a pitch torch.”

Satisfied, Jack set down his rifle and walked toward the campfire with his six-gun cocked. A bright flare from the fire illuminated four of the killers' bloody faces, none of which looked ready to fight anymore. Assessing the blood loss, Jack calculated that only two of them would still be alive in the next few minutes. He kicked their handguns aside as he approached them.

“Well, troopers, we came, we fought and we won.” He reloaded his six-gun, holstered it, and shifted the holster. “Carry in those other two near the herd,” he directed.

“Yes, sir, Captain,” Jangles said with a quick salute.

The dead lay side by side while Jack's men dug a single, wide grave for them. One of the two who was still alive was no doubt the leader, judging from his age. He'd taken a bullet in the chest and was coughing up blood into his sleeve. He dragged himself upright and leaned back against a large log, struggling for breath, while Jack squatted on his haunches before him.

“I can make your last hours better or worse.”

The man held Jack's gaze for a long time with a look of distrust in his eyes. “What's the price?” he finally spat out, coughing and spitting blood to the side.

“All you have to tell me is who hired you to do this.”

The man shook his head. “No one. These dead men are mine. I run my own operation.”

Jack wasn't having it for a second. “How did you know Jason Holmes had such fine horses to steal?”

The man started coughing violently, his chest heaving up and down. “My men found them.”

Jack jerked the cork out of a pint of whiskey he'd found near the campfire and took a swallow from the bottle. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Good whiskey. I wish I could share this with you, but I can't if you don't tell me the truth. I need a name.”

The man managed a feeble laugh, dropped his chin to his chest, and slumped over. Jack corked the bottle and grabbed the man by his long, gray-streaked hair, then drew his hunting knife. “I'm going to scalp you before you die, you worthless sumbitch. Who sent you up there?”

But it was no use. The man was dead.

The last survivor was a kid and he knew nothing. They hung him at dawn, then tossed his body in the massive grave and buried the six corpses. Jack gave a little prayer for them and ordered his team to mount up. They drove the rustlers' team and the stolen horses back toward home.

As they got closer, word was soon out. The rangers with the recovered horses were returning, and folks lined the road or gathered at crossroads to wave Lone Star flags at them and shout, “Hurrah, rangers!”