Renegades (21 page)

He tied Stormy to the hitch rail, told Dog to stay, and stepped up onto the boardwalk. The night was cool, so the doors of the saloon were closed. They opened just as Frank reached them, and he stopped so that the man leaving the saloon would have room to get by.

Instead the man who stepped onto the boardwalk stopped short, grunted in surprise, and said, “Morgan?”

In the light that spilled out through the open door, Frank found himself looking at Captain Nathan Wedge of the Texas Rangers.

Frank stared at Wedge for a second and then nodded curtly. “Captain,” he said. “I didn't expect to see you again so soon after I rode in.”

“I didn't expect to see you at all,” Wedge said. “I thought you'd been killed down there in Mexico, when we had that ruckus with the Black Scorpion's gang.”

“Hung around to look for me, did you?” Frank asked coolly.

In the light from the saloon, he saw Wedge's face flush angrily. “Nobody knew where you'd gotten off to, and I had wounded men to get back across the border and take care of. I'm sorry if that rankles you, Morgan, but my first duty is to my men.”

“I reckon I can understand that,” Frank said. “Anyway, I'm all right.”

“And I'm glad to hear it.” Wedge inclined his head toward the door of the saloon. “We're letting the night air in. Come inside and have a drink with me.”

“You weren't about to leave?”

“It was nothing that can't wait. Come on.”

It wouldn't do any harm to have a drink with Wedge, Frank decided. Even though he harbored some suspicions about the man after what had happened out at the Longwell ranch, he wasn't ready just yet to assume that Wedge had crossed over to the wrong side of the law. It was possible that Dewey, Terrall, and the other man had been acting on their own, rather than following Wedge's orders. Most of the Rangers were fine, upstanding frontiersmen, but a few rotten apples could work their way into any organization.

Frank followed Wedge into the Border Palace. The Ranger captain closed the door behind them. He walked to the bar. Frank moseyed along behind him, taking advantage of the opportunity to see how the citizens of San Rosa regarded Wedge. Some of the men in the room lowered their eyes and didn't look at the Ranger. Others glared at him and then looked away. A few seemed nervous and afraid, and a few more stared at Wedge with what looked to Frank like outright hatred in their eyes.

But out of the couple of dozen men in the saloon, not a one of them seemed to actually like Wedge.

Being a lawman didn't automatically make a fella popular, Frank reminded himself. In fact, often just the opposite was true. But Frank had seldom seen a situation such as this, where everyone seemed either to be afraid of Wedge, or to hate him, or both.

“Couple of beers, barkeep,” Wedge said as he rested his left hand on the polished hardwood bar. With a surly expression on his face, the bartender drew the beers and slid them over in front of Wedge. The captain tossed a coin onto the bar.

The apron stared at the coin and said, “What's that, Captain?”

Wedge frowned and flipped his hand. “For the beers.”

“You know I can't charge you, Captain.”

“Nonsense. I always pay my way.” Wedge's face was getting red again.

Stubbornly, the bartender shook his head. “No, sir. You know your money's no good here, Captain Wedge.”

“Well, I'm damned if I'm going to stand here all night arguing with you.” Wedge picked up the coin and put it back in his pocket. “Drink up, Morgan.”

Frank picked up one of the mugs of beer and drank from it. He said to the bartender, “You have any coffee on the stove, maybe something to eat?”

“Are you one of the Rangers, sir?” the man asked.

“Nope.”

The bartender seemed to warm up to him a little. “Got a pot of stew in the back, and coffee, too.”

“Bring it on,” Frank said. “And I'll be paying for it.”

“Sure, mister.”

Wedge glowered as he drank some of the beer. “Man's got a burr up his butt about something,” he muttered after the bartender had stepped through a door behind the bar.

“Seemed pleasant enough to me,” Frank commented.

Wedge changed the subject by asking sharply, “Where have you been, Morgan? It's been almost two weeks since you disappeared.”

“I was a guest at the rancho of Don Felipe Almanzar.”

Wedge grunted. “Almanzar, eh? I don't know the man, but I hear he's a troublemaker and hates gringos. Especially Cecil Tolliver.”

“He was hospitable enough to me,” Frank said. His instincts told him not to say anything about the effort he was making to patch things up between Don Felipe and Cecil Tolliver.

“Well, you're lucky he didn't kill you.” Wedge looked over at him. “One of my men said he thought he saw you chasing after the Black Scorpion. Is that right?”

“I went after him, but I didn't get him,” Frank replied truthfully.

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Not really. He always had his mask on. But it wouldn't have mattered if I did. I wouldn't have known who he was, now would I?”

“No, I reckon not,” Wedge admitted. “I just thought you might be able to describe him. A good description might help us catch up to him one of these days.” He took another drink of the beer and then added, “I could pass it on to the Rurales, too. They'd like to catch that son of a bitch.”

Since Wedge had given him the opening, Frank took advantage of it. “I don't know that I'd be too helpful to the Rurales if I was you, Captain. From what I heard over there, they've gone bad. Turned renegade.”

Wedge set his mug on the bar with a thump. “That can't be!” he said. “I know the commander of the local company, Captain Estancia. He's a fine officer.”

“Is that so?”

“That's right.” Wedge's eyes narrowed angrily. “You don't know what you're talking about, Morgan.”

Frank shrugged and appeared to take no offense, despite the anger he felt inside. “I'm just going by what I heard.”

“Well, you heard wrong,” Wedge snapped. A moment of tense silence went by. Wedge broke it by saying, “Are you going back out to the Rocking T?”

“Thought I would tomorrow.”

“What brings you to town tonight?”

Frank decided it was time to take a chance. He said, “I was looking for a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Wedge repeated with a frown. “You don't look hurt to me.”

“Wasn't for me. I rode up to a little ranch outside of town where a fella had accidentally shot himself in the shoulder while he was cleaning his six-gun. When I saw how bad he was hurt I offered to fetch a sawbones for him. Doc Ervin's on his way out there now.”

“Hombre shot himself, did he? You get his name?”

“Longwell, I think,” Frank said. “Harry, Howard, something like that.”

Wedge had a good poker face, but not quite good enough. Frank saw the way the Ranger's eyes flashed for an instant, saw as well how Wedge's muscles stiffened. The captain said, “Howard Longwell is his name. I know the man. Raises horses. You say he shot himself?”

“That's right.” Frank took a sip of his beer.

“You didn't see anybody else around the place?”

“No, I don't think so,” Frank said with an innocent shake of his head. “Nobody but his wife. Should I have?”

“No, I was just curious. Maybe I'll ride out there and see if he's all right, find out if there's anything he needs.”

“That's neighborly of you.”

“Just doing my job,” Wedge said gruffly. “Protecting the people along the border.”

The bartender came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee and a bowl of stew for Frank. Both were steaming. Frank grinned in anticipation as the apron set the food and drink on the bar.

“I'm much obliged,” Frank said. “What do I owe you?”

“Four bits'll cover it,” the bartender said.

Frank slid a fifty-cent piece across the bar and dug in. Wedge pushed his empty mug aside and said, “I'll be seeing you, Morgan. You plan on staying in these parts long?”

“For a while,” Frank said.

Wedge grunted and left the saloon. The atmosphere inside the room eased as soon as he was gone. Men began to talk louder, and a few of them even laughed. That made Frank aware of just how subdued the place had been while Wedge was there.

The bartender leaned over the hardwood and said quietly, “Pardon me, mister, but . . . are you and Captain Wedge friends?”

“I wouldn't say that. We're acquainted.” Frank lowered his voice, too. “From the looks of it, the captain's not a very popular hombre around here.”

“Nobody said that,” the bartender replied hastily. Worry sprang up in his eyes, as if he was afraid that he had said too much.

Frank shook his head and said, “Take it easy, amigo. Like I told you, Wedge and I aren't friends. Fact of the matter is, I don't care much for him.”

“Well, I ain't sayin' anything against him. Nobody is.”

“Because you're all afraid to?”

The bartender didn't answer. He didn't have to. The look in his eyes was answer enough. Instead he said, “How's that stew?”

“Mighty good,” Frank said with a smile. “Just what I needed.”

He had gotten what he needed in the saloon, all right. Wedge's reaction to the mention of Howard Longwell being shot had told Frank that Dewey and the other two hadn't gone out to the Longwell ranch on their own initiative. Wedge had sent them out there. Whether or not he had ordered them to gun Longwell down if he didn't cooperate was still unknown, but Frank would have been willing to bet that those had been Wedge's orders.

Difficult though it was to believe, it was beginning to look as if the Rangers under Wedge had turned renegade, just like the Rurales on the other side of the border.

As Frank continued eating the stew and sipping from the cup of hot, black coffee, he thought about the situation and told himself that he didn't have the full story yet. There was still more to learn.

He wasn't likely to learn it tonight, though. Instead, when he finished his meal, he asked the bartender, “Do you know Miss Roanne Williamson? She has a dress shop or something like that here in town.”

The man smiled. “Sure, I know Miss Williamson. Fine lady. Her shop is down the street a block, on the other side. It'll be closed at this time of night, though.”

“Do you happen to know where Miss Williamson lives?”

“She's got quarters in the back of her shop, I think.” The bartender looked a little embarrassed. “I ain't rightly sure about that.”

“I'm obliged for the food and the information.” Frank gave the man a friendly nod and went out of the saloon.

The night air was cool but pleasant. Frank untied Stormy from the hitch rail and led him down the street. Dog padded along beside them. Frank's keen eyes searched the businesses along the boardwalk, looking for Roanne's dress shop.

A sudden, deep-throated growl from Dog warned him. Frank stopped short as Colt flame bloomed in the darkness of a nearby alley. He heard the wind-rip of a bullet as it passed right in front of his face. Another step and the slug would have blown a hole in his head.

He threw himself forward, diving and rolling behind a water trough as the bushwhacker's gun blasted again. This time the bullet sizzled right behind Frank. He had known the ambusher would try to correct his aim; that was why he had flung himself forward. His Peacemaker was in his hand as he came up on one knee behind the water trough. He triggered twice, flame lancing from the barrel of the Colt as the two fast shots thundered.

Dog ran into the alley, growling and snarling furiously. Frank heard a man scream. Dog had the bushwhacker cornered. Another shot roared, and instantly, Dog yelped in pain.

“Dog!” Frank shouted as he vaulted over the water trough and sprinted toward the alley. If that son-of-a-bitch drygulcher had hurt Dog—!

Footsteps thudded rapidly farther along the alley. Another muzzle flash split the darkness, and Frank felt the sombrero fly off his head as a bullet tore through it. He fired twice more, but didn't know if he hit the gunman or not.

His foot struck something soft and yielding. He went to a knee and thrust out a hand, feeling the coarse hair of the big cur. “Dog,” Frank grated.

To his relief, Dog whimpered and moved around on the floor of the alley. He wasn't dead.

Frank heard a swift, sudden rataplan of hoofbeats that faded into the distance. The bushwhacker had reached his horse and gotten away. Frank holstered his Colt and ran both hands over Dog's big, muscular body, searching for a wound. He found a bloody gash on the animal's flank. Thankfully, that seemed to be Dog's only injury.

Dog struggled to get to his feet. Frank helped him and thought that the shock of being shot might have numbed Dog's nerves for a few minutes and knocked his legs out from under him. Dog was still unsteady, but seemed to be generally all right. “Come on, boy,” Frank told him. “Let's see about getting you patched up.”

He slid his arms under Dog's belly and picked him up. Dog was a big creature, weighing close to a hundred pounds, maybe a little more than that. Frank carried him like a baby, though, cradling the big animal against him. When he reached the street, he turned in the same direction he'd been going before somebody tried to kill him. Stormy trailed along behind without being led.

Frank noticed that no one had emerged from any of the buildings to see what all the shooting was about. That realization brought a frown to his face. Gunshots
always
brought people out. The fact that these hadn't told Frank something.

San Rosa was a frightened town.

A moment later Frank spotted a sign on the front of one of the frame buildings that read
WILLIAMSON'S DRESS SHOP.
The front of the building was dark, but he thought he saw a faint glow in the back. Roanne might still be up. He climbed to the building's little porch and kicked on the door. “Miss Williamson!” he called. “Roanne!”