A Ranger's Christmas (Lone Star Ranger Book 4) Read online

  Lone Star Ranger:

  Volume 4

  A Ranger’s Christmas

  James J. Griffin

  Lone Star Ranger:

  Volume 1 A Ranger to Ride With

  Volume 2 A Ranger to Reckon With

  Volume 3 A Ranger to Fight With

  Lone Star Ranger Vol.4:

  A Ranger’s Christmas by James J. Griffin

  Copyright© 2014 James J. Griffin

  Cover Design Livia Reasoner

  Texas Ranger badge image courtesy of the Texas Ranger Hall of Fame and Museum, Waco

  Author photo credited to Susanne Onatah

  Painted Pony Books

  www.paintedponybooks.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Dedication

  For Everyone Who Has Ever Had to Spend Their Holidays Away From Home, Family, and Loved Ones.

  Prologue

  Nate Stewart crawled gratefully under his blankets. It was the evening of the day after the Rangers’ gunfight with the outlaws who had killed Nate’s parents and older brother, along with so many others. Nate, like the rest of the men, was still feeling drained after the hard chase, followed by the tension and, yes, Nate had to admit it, raw fear of the final showdown with the renegades. In addition, the wounded found it difficult to maintain a hard pace, so Captain Quincy had kept his Rangers’ horses moving mostly at a walk. That meant they had not covered the distance they ordinarily would. They made camp early, well before sundown, cared for the mounts, then ate a quick supper. Before dusk had even faded to full dark, most of the men were asleep. Now, except for the two sentries, it seemed to Nate he was the only one still awake. He’d spent some extra time grooming his sorrel, Big Red, before turning in.

  Nate lay on his back, his hands behind his neck, his head pillowed on his saddle. Lost in thought, he gazed up at the myriad stars pin-pricking the inky curtain of the night sky. A thin crescent moon was just lifting itself over the eastern horizon. He reflected on all that had happened to him since the attack on his family’s ranch, the murder of his parents and older brother, and himself being shot and left for dead. Although it had only been a few weeks since that fateful day, sometimes Nate’s recollection seemed hazy, as if the event had happened many months ago. Other times, his memories were as vivid as if the outlaws had attacked only yesterday.

  Nate sighed. After the final confrontation between the Rangers and the gang, during which he had finally shot and killed the pale-eyed demon leading the outfit, he had expected to feel triumphant, or at least a deep satisfaction at finally exacting his revenge on the murderers. Instead, he just felt weary. There seemed to be a hollowness deep in his soul. True, he was appreciative that the men were dead, and would never again rob, burn, and kill. He was glad of that. And his parents’ and brother’s deaths had been avenged. But the deaths of the outlaws would not bring back his family, nor Nate’s old life. Justice had been served, but at what cost?

  Nate shifted slightly. One thing was for certain. He was no longer the clumsy, naïve youngster he’d been before all this happened. Unlike Jonathan, his older brother, who had instinctively taken to Texas and the cowboy life, Nate had hated his new home, and desired nothing more than to return to Wilmington, Delaware, and his old friends. He’d been like a fish out of water, feeling incompetent, lost, and completely out of place. Now, after being rescued by the Rangers, and becoming part of the outfit, he’d discovered a new life, one he loved. Under their careful tutelage, the Rangers had taught Nate how to handle himself on the rugged western frontier, not only to survive, but to thrive. He only wished his ma and pa, and especially his older brother Jonathan, could see him now. He realized he still had some more growing up to do, and a lot to learn, but he was certain he could handle almost anything which Texas, and the outlaws who roamed its vast spaces, could throw at him. And he knew one thing for sure. Whatever happened from here on out, his old life was behind him, and the new one certainly promised to be filled with adventure.

  1

  Two days after leaving the Devil’s River, about mid-afternoon, Captain Quincy ordered the column of men to a halt. He pointed at a fast-growing smudge of dust on the northern horizon.

  “What do you make of that dust off to the northwest, Bob?” he asked Lieutenant Berkeley. “Seems like there’s an awful lot of it. I reckon it’s a dust storm comin’ up on us, and it looks like it’s movin’ right quick. If it is, we’d better find somewhere to hole up, and fast. We sure don’t want to be caught out in the open when that storm hits.”

  Bob pushed back his Stetson, then pulled it off and rubbed sweat from the inside band. He shoved it back on his head, then studied the dust cloud before replying.

  “I dunno, Dave. I doubt it’s a dust storm. I know the wind can blow up one heckuva storm with no warnin’, but the weather doesn’t seem right for one to me. There’s hardly any breeze at all, yet that cloud’s movin’ mighty fast. That dust’s also not spread out far enough. It seems to be comin’ from one spot. I’d say whatever is causin’ it is man-made. But it sure ain’t Indians. No Comanche, Apache, or Kiowa worth his salt would stir up that much of a dust cloud.”

  “Jeb, ride on back and bring up Percy, will you?” Quincy asked Ranger Rollins.

  “Right away, Cap’n Dave,” Jeb answered. He started to turn Dudley, his paint, back along the column, but stopped when Percy Leaping Buck, the Rangers’ Tonkawa scout, rode up.

  “There’s no need to send Jeb lookin’ for me,” Percy said, as he pulled Wind Runner, his wiry pinto gelding, to a stop. “I’m right here. Knew you’d want me.”

  “You always have had fine instincts, Percy,” Quincy said. “That’s why you’re such a valuable member of this outfit. Now, what do you make of that dust cloud yonder? Think you should scout ahead and see what’s causin’ it?”

  “There’s no need for that,” Percy answered. “I’m surprised none of you boys haven’t already figured it out. That dust is from a herd of buffalo, a big one, stampeding straight at us. From the way they’re movin’, it won’t be long until they’re right on top of us. Which means, if we don’t get out of their way, we’ll be trampled flatter’n George’s hotcakes.”

  “There sure ain’t no place to hide from ’em around here,” Jeb said. “We’ll have to try’n outrun those buffs.”

  “Jeb, you know a man on horseback can’t outrun a stampeding herd of buffalo,” Percy said. “A lotta horses might be able to run a bit faster than buffalo, but they sure can’t outlast ’em. A frightened buffalo’ll run all day if he has to, or jump straight over a cliff and kill himself. Any horse in front of that stampede would wear himself out and get plumb run down, while those buffs wouldn’t even be breathin’ hard. No, I figure our only chance is that low mesa over there, off to the left. We’d best hope we can find some kind of trail to the top, or perhaps a cut in its side we can all squeeze into. If there aren’t any, then we’ll have to try to beat that herd to the far end of that mesa, huddle up against the wall, and hope those buffalo go on past us. And with some real luck, I might even be able to down one or two of ’em, so we’ll have fresh meat. But we’ve got to get movin’, and I mean right now. That herd’ll be here before we know it. It’s gonna be a real close call beating it to the mesa. We keep sittin’ here jawin’, and we won’t stand a chance. Especially G
eorge and the chuck wagon.”

  “Then let’s get movin’,” Captain Quincy said. He turned his bay, Bailey, to face the rest of the men.

  “Boys,” he shouted, “That dust cloud’s from a stampedin’ herd of buffalo. We’ve got to try and outrun ’em to the back side of that mesa up ahead. So run your horses like the devil himself was after you, because if you don’t, some of you just might be meetin’ up with him, or mebbe the Good Lord’s angels, today. Good luck.”

  He reined Bailey around and dug his spurs into the horse’s ribs. Bailey leapt forward into a dead run, the rest of the men strung out behind him, with George in the chuck wagon, then Phil and the remuda, bringing up the rear. The horses, used to running at top speed over the roughest terrain, needed little urging to maintain the breakneck pace.

  “We gonna be able to outrun that stampede?” Nate called to Hoot, shouting to be heard over the horses’ thundering hooves and labored breathing.

  “You’d darn well better hope so,” Hoot hollered back. “I’ve seen men killed in cattle stampedes, more’n once. It’s not a pretty sight, and I’d imagine gettin’ trampled by a herd of buffalo would be even worse. I sure don’t want to die that way. I’d sooner take a bullet, any day. So just lay over your horse’s neck and give him his head. Let him run until he’s run out. You just might save your neck if you do.”

  Stung by the fear and urgency in Hoot’s voice, Nate bent as low as he could over Big Red’s withers, and slapped the reins against his neck, getting still more speed out of the long-legged sorrel. Within moments, Red was even overtaking Jeb’s speedy paint, Dudley. Jeb’s gelding had long been the fastest mount in Captain Quincy’s company, but right now, Red was pushing him for all he was worth.

  Occasionally, one of the men would turn in his saddle and risk a glance backward. The dust cloud from the stampeding buffalo was growing nearer every minute.

  “They’re gainin’ on us fast,” Joe Duffy yelled. “It’s gonna be awful close.” He pushed his horse even harder. Behind him, George was cursing and yelling at his mules, slapping the reins on their rumps, struggling to keep them under control. His wagon was jouncing wildly, every bump jolting its wheels off the ground, every chuckhole threatening to rip off an axle, every rut sending it swerving, nearly out of control. More than once it rose onto two wheels and nearly tipped over, only George’s skill as a driver and a lot of luck bringing it back down on all four.

  In what seemed like hours, but what was in reality less than ten minutes, the men reached the base of the mesa. They pulled their horses to a halt, while Percy took a quick look around.

  “I don’t see any way up this thing, and there’s no clefts in the rocks we can find our way into,” he said. “We’ve got to head for the far end, and huddle up against the base. That’s our only chance. And hurry. Those buffs’ll be right on top of us any minute now.”

  The menacing dust cloud had grown ominously close, and the buffalo herd had drawn near enough the pounding of their hooves could be heard. Just as the fatigued horses were pushed into a run once again, the buffalo thundered into view, still driven to frantic flight by whatever had panicked them. The Rangers’ jaded mounts had no chance of outrunning the terror-stricken beasts for much longer. However, the sight, sound, and scent of those oncoming buffalo struck even more fear into the horses than their riders, so they needed no urging to use the last of their strength for a final, frantic burst of speed.

  Nate was still close behind Jeb and Dudley when, without warning, Red stumbled and nearly went to his knees. Nate barely managed to stay in the saddle, gripping Red’s sides desperately with his legs, to avoid being tossed over the falling horse’s head. He pulled back on the reins as hard as he could, jerking Red’s head up and keeping him from tumbling head over heels, and squashing Nate underneath his thousand pounds. The big sorrel resumed running, but at a much slower pace, and with a pronounced limp. Several of the other men had caught up to and passed Nate by the time he turned Red behind the shelter of the mesa’s wall. The buffalo were hard on the heels of the last men to turn behind the wall.

  Jake and Jill, the two mules pulling the chuck wagon, were completely panicked, so terrified George could hardly control them. When he attempted to turn them behind the mesa, they fought the reins, struggling to keep running straight ahead, then swerving so violently that the wagon overturned. George was thrown from his seat, landed hard on his face, slid for several feet, rolled over once, then lay still.

  Phil Knight was just behind the wagon, driving the remuda and attempting to keep it bunched. When he saw George’s fall, he left the spare animals to their own devices and spurred Parker, his chestnut, toward the unconscious cook. Dan Morton had also seen the wreck, and he also spurred Pedro, his buckskin, to where George had fallen. He and Phil reached George at the same time. They leapt from their saddles and hurried to him. When they started to drag him out of danger, they realized the buffalo herd was too close. They didn’t have enough time to pull George to safety.

  “Throw him over my horse, Dan, and I’ll get him outta here,” Phil shouted. “Quick!”

  George was dead weight as the two men lifted him, then draped him over Parker’s withers. As Phil jumped back into the saddle and galloped away, Dan turned to face the oncoming buffalo. He pulled his rifle from its boot, just before the frightened Pedro yanked the reins from Dan’s grip and raced off. Dan knelt and emptied his rifle at the huge bull leading the stampede, and the cow alongside it. The two lead animals dropped, but the rest of the herd swerved around the carcasses and kept coming. Dan tossed aside the empty rifle, pulled out his pistol, and raced for the dubious shelter of the overturned wagon, emptying the gun as he ran. For a moment, it appeared he would reach safety, but one of the charging beasts hit him with its shoulder and knocked him off his feet. He disappeared under a thousand hooves as the herd raced on, some of them slamming into the wagon. The heavy conveyance shuddered under the impact, its canvas top ripping and sturdy wood planks splintering. The men who saw Dan go down grimaced, a couple of them whispering silent prayers, the rest cursing at his fate.

  Phil galloped to safety and slid out of his saddle. “A couple of you give me a hand with George, here,” he called. Hoot and Tom rushed to help him. They lifted the unconscious cook off Parker and laid him gently on the ground. Phil turned around to look for Dan.

  “Where’s Dan?” he cried, when he saw no sign of his partner.

  “He didn’t make it,” Tom said, shaking his head. “His horse ran off. He tried to reach the chuck wagon, but he didn’t make it. Those buffs trampled him into the dirt.”

  Phil hung his head, his shoulders shaking as he stifled a sob.

  As Percy had hoped, the panicked buffalo continued running straight ahead, in their headlong dash. The men had to hold tight to their terrified horses’ reins, until the stampede got by. It took several minutes for the last of the buffalo to pass. Once the herd had swept by, Captain Quincy ordered his men into action.

  “Jim, see what you can do for George,” he told Jim Kelly. “Joe, you and Carl try’n see for certain what happened to Dan. Maybe, just maybe, by some miracle, he survived that tramplin’.”

  “There probably won’t be enough left of poor Dan to pick up with a spoon,” Joe muttered. “I can’t think of a worse way to die. Even gettin’ gut-shot’d be a better way to go.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Quincy snapped. “But he deserves a decent burial, no matter what.”

  “We’ll bring him back, Cap’n, whatever shape he’s in,” Carl said. “C’mon, Joe.” He and Joe mounted their horses and headed for the overturned wagon.

  “Phil, you’d better get after the remuda, before they’re scattered from here to Mexico,” Quincy continued. “Take Nate with you.”

  “Right, Cap’n,” Phil said. “C’mon, Nate.”

  “I can’t go with you, Phil,” Nate answered. “Red’s hurt. He almost fell back there, and now he’s limpin’.”

  “Phil, I’ll go w
ith you,” Jeb offered. “Nate, you stay here and give the rest of the boys a hand. You can’t chance makin’ your horse’s injury worse, and mebbe even cripplin’ him for life.”

  “Thanks, Jeb,” Phil replied. To Nate he continued. “Try not to fret too much about Red. Soon as me’n Jeb have the spare animals rounded up, I’ll check him over. I know you must be worried about him, but I’m certain he’ll be fine.”

  “Nate,” Jim said. “I could use a hand treatin’ the injured men, if you wouldn’t mind. George is the worst hurt, but a couple of the others got some scrapes and bruises. It’d be a good chance for you to learn a bit about doctorin’, if you think you can handle it. Learnin’ how to sew up a cut, or treat a broken bone or busted head, might just save your life, or one of your friend’s, some day.”

  “Sure, Jim,” Nate agreed. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I knew you’d say yes, and I appreciate it,” Jim said. “C’mon, let’s get to work.”

  “Dakota, you and Tom butcher those buffalo Dan downed. Percy got one too, so get that one, also. Get as much meat off of ’em as you can. There’s enough dry mesquite branches lyin’ around to cook it all. What we can’t eat tonight we’ll take along. The rest of you, let’s get over to what’s left of the wagon, and see what supplies we can salvage,” Captain Quincy said. “And here’s hopin’ the wagon's not busted up so bad we can’t repair it.”

  “Better send a couple of men back to pick up the stuff some of the mules lost,” Lieutenant Bob said. “Looks like three of ’em ditched their pack saddles durin’ that run.”

  “You’re right, Bob. You take Hoot and handle that chore.”

  “We’ll try’n save everything we can,” Bob said. “We’d better pray those buffalo didn’t smash up all the goods. We’ve still got five days ahead of us before we reach Fort Stockton. That’s a long way to go without any food or water.”