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  RANGER JUSTICE

  A Texas Ranger Jim Blawcyzk Story

  James J. Griffin

  iUniverse, Inc.

  New York Lincoln Shanghai

  Ranger Justice

  A Texas Ranger Jim Blawcyzk Story

  Copyright © 2006 by James J. Griffin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

  taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-595-40360-8 (pbk)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-595-84735-8 (ebk)

  ISBN-10: 0-595-40360-3 (pbk)

  ISBN-10: 0-595-84735-8 (ebk)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Credit for forensics information: Texas Ranger Sergeant Jim Huggins, Texas Ranger Company F, Waco, Texas

  Credit for weapons technical information: Karl Rehn and Penny Riggs of KR Training, Austin, Texas

  Front cover photograph: Deborah McConnell, Chester, Connecticut

  Author Photograph: Patricia Johnson, Hamden, Connecticut

  Front cover photograph location: Twin Brook Stables, Clinton, Connecticut

  Author photograph taken at Double T Ranch, Madison, Connecticut

  The author wishes to extend his thanks and gratitude to the Laudano family of Twin Brook Stables for the care they have provided his horses, Sizzle and Yankee, these many years.

  For My Aunt Leota

  Prologue

  “Boy howdy, I never expected that blasted thunderstorm to catch up with us so quick,” Mike Thompson complained as he and his partner burst through the door of a dilapidated line shack. “Never even had a chance to get the slicker off my saddle. I’m drenched.” The young cowboy pulled his Stetson off his head, slapped it against his leg to drive water from the brim, then peeled off his soaked shirt. “Guess I’ll get a fire started,” he muttered as he turned toward the rusted stove. Mike stopped in his tracks, seeing his partner standing with a Colt .45 leveled at his middle.

  “Whoa. What’s that for?” he exclaimed, “If this is supposed to be some kinda joke, it ain’t funny.”

  “It’s no joke, Ranger,” came the snarling reply. The Colt roared twice, both bullets ripping low into Mike’s middle, just below his bellybutton. As the impact of the slugs smashed him against the wall, Mike jackknifed to his knees as he clawed desperately at his bullet-torn gut, then pitched to his face. He attempted to push himself up, but only managed to roll onto his back. With a groan, the young Ranger clamped his hands to his belly, writhing in agony as blood seeped between his fingers.

  “I’d like to see you die real slow, Ranger,” the gunman growled, “but I don’t have that much time.” Deliberately he aimed his Colt at Mike’s chest and fired, sending a finishing bullet into the Ranger’s heart. Mike’s body jerked from the impact of the slug, then he shuddered once and lay unmoving.

  “I reckon that takes care of you, lawman,” the killer muttered, “Soon’s the storm lets up, I’ll drag your carcass out for the buzzards.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Jim Blawcyzk rolled out of his blankets as the first light of dawn streaked the eastern horizon. He whistled shrilly, and the big paint gelding cropping grass a short distance off lifted his head to whinny loudly in return, then went back to his grazing.

  “Time to get movin’,” Jim muttered as he stirred the still-warm coals of his fire. While his coffee boiled he washed up at the small spring where he’d camped, then ate his meager breakfast of bacon and biscuits. Once the frying pan, coffee pot, tin dish, and mug had been scrubbed and put back in his saddlebags he again whistled, twice this time. The paint trotted up to Jim and nuzzled his back pocket. “’Course I’ve got your candy,” Jim chuckled, digging a peppermint out of his jeans and slipping it to the horse. “You’ll get a good fee-din’ tonight, Sam,” he promised the gelding as he saddled. “We’ll make Sanderson by noon, and you’ll finally have a stall.” For the past week Jim had been riding hard, living off the supplies in his saddlebags, while his paint had survived on whatever grass he could find. Rider and horse were both thinned down, Sam’s flanks gaunted from the hard run and poor grazing. Jim tightened his cinch, slipped the bridle over the horse’s head, and swung into the saddle. As the sun broke over the eastern horizon he resumed his southwestward journey.

  To all appearances Jim Blawcyzk was just another drifting Texas cowpoke. He was a shade over six feet tall, wearing a faded gray shirt, leather vest, worn levis, and scuffed boots, a red bandanna tied loosely around his neck, the

  clothes coated with the dust of long miles. A tan Stetson covered a shock of thick blonde hair. His clear blue eyes peered out from a face weathered by years of exposure to the Texas sun and wind, making him appear older than his age of thirty-two. A week’s worth of blonde stubble framed that face and jaw. A heavy colt Peacemaker rode in the holster at his left hip, while a Bowie knife snuggled in a sheath attached to his belt, and a Winchester rode in the saddle boot under his leg. However, hidden in his shirt pocket was a hand-carved silver star on silver circle badge, the symbol of the Texas Rangers. While Rangers wore no uniforms and most didn’t carry badges, Jim was one of the few who’d carved his own from a Mexican ten peso coin. He kept the badge out of sight until it was needed.

  Beneath Jim was his war horse Sam, a powerful palomino and white paint gelding. The horse had a vicious temper, except with his rider or Jim’s eight year old son, charlie. Sam’s wicked teeth and iron-shod hooves had saved the Ranger’s life on more than one occasion. He had both speed and bottom, and could go for days on little food and water.

  As Jim rode on at a steady pace, he once again thought over the information Captain Hank Trumbull had given him back at Ranger Headquarters in Austin.

  “Jim,” Trumbull had said as he handed Blawcyzk a thick file, “There’ve been several killin’s around Sanderson, down in Terrell County. Doesn’t seem to be a connection between any of’em. A couple months ago I sent Mike Thompson down there. You rode with him awhile back, didn’t you?”

  “Just once, Cap’n. Down in the Nueces Strip, when we were both with Company D. Mike’s a good man.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but Mike’s disappeared. About five weeks ago, we got this unsigned letter claimin he was murdered.” Trumbull passed the paper across the desk for Jim’s perusal.

  “Appears this was written by a woman,” Jim observed, noting the delicate handwriting.

  “Seems so,” Trumbull shrugged, “After I saw that letter I sent Steve Masters down to Sanderson. He mailed me when he got there, sayin he’d arrived. He hasn’t been heard from since. I want you to head on down there, figure out what’s happened to Steve, find Mike’s killer, and round up whoever’s behind those murders
for the gallows.”

  Jim glanced up from the files as he chuckled slightly. “That’s all, Cap’n?”

  “About enough, isn’t it?”

  “I reckon so,” Jim grinned, “I’ll be ridin’.”

  Now several days later, the weary Ranger was nearing the end of his journey. He reined his horse to a halt on a ridge overlooking the Big Bend town of Sanderson.

  “We’re almost there Sam,” he said, as the paint shook his head impatiently, “I wonder what kind of reception we’ll have waitin’ for us.” Jim heeled the big horse into an easy lope.

  The Ranger knew what he’d find in Sanderson even before he rode into town. It would be much like a hundred other hardscrabble west Texas towns he’d visited in the course of his career, with a Main Street fetlock deep in dust, businesses housed in peeling adobes or false-fronted wooden structures on either side, most of the houses little more than shacks on the few side streets. The largest business establishments would be the hotel, saloon, and dance hall, not necessarily in that order. The sheriff’s office and jail, and courthouse if the town had one, would front on a hard-packed square, with perhaps a few struggling cottonwoods providing meager shade.

  “Sure hope there’s a decent hotel,” Jim mused as he reached the outskirts of the town, “That’ll have to wait until I get Sam settled down and check in with the sheriff, though.” Although he rode casually in the saddle, those blue eyes under his pulled-low Stetson missed nothing as he walked his horse slowly down the street.

  “Somethin’s sure wrong here,” he thought, glancing from side to side. “Where’s everybody at?” At this time of day, late afternoon, the street should be bustling with people doing business or finishing their shopping. Instead the board sidewalks were practically deserted, the only persons Jim did see two women who quickly disappeared into the open doorway of a millinery shop.

  As he rounded a slight curve, Jim stiffened in his saddle when the town plaza came into view. An angry mob was gathered around the lone cotton-wood in the center of the plaza, under which a man with a noose around his neck sat the saddle of a blaze-faced chestnut horse. Alongside him another man stood with his hand gripping the hangrope, ready to release it at any moment.

  “That’s Steve Masters!” Jim exclaimed in surprise as he recognized the man on the chestnut as the missing Ranger, “Let’s move, Sam.” He dug his heels into the big horse’s flanks. As the paint leapt ahead at a dead run, Jim fumbled in his shirt pocket for his badge, pinning it to his vest as he yanked his Winchester from the saddle boot.

  “Texas Ranger! Don’t anyone make a move!” Jim ordered as he galloped Sam up to the crowd. One of the spectators at the edge of the mob started to pull a gun as he stepped into the path of the Ranger’s gelding, only to be doubled over, retching and gagging for breath as Sam lowered his head and rammed it into the man’s middle. As the man folded over the paint’s head, Sam jerked his head upward, the top of his rock-hard skull slamming into the vigilante’s face, smashing his cheekbones and knocking him senseless. Without breaking his stride, the big horse plunged into the mob, teeth slashing men’s shoulders and hooves smashing into their ribs. Anger turned to near-panic as men scrambled to get out of the way of the madly charging paint.

  “Get your hand off that rope!” Jim ordered, as he reached the side of the chestnut and slid Sam to a halt.

  “The devil I will!” the hangman growled in response. He then slapped his hat across the chestnut’s rump, sending the horse plunging forward.

  Steve Masters was jerked from the saddle as his startled gelding leapt ahead. As Masters dangled from the rope, choking, Blawcyzk jumped Sam sideways, wrapped his arm around Steve’s waist, and grabbed his fellow Ranger in midair, lifting him onto Sam’s withers. When the cursing hangman reached for his gun Jim put a bullet into his shoulder, spinning him to the dirt. Another member of the mob lifted a plank to cave in Jim’s skull, only to screech in pain and clutch his stinging hand as the Ranger levered his rifle and fired again, smashing the board in two. Jim fired once more, taking the hat off a third man.

  “Next one who tries anythin’ gets it in the guts,” he warned, that unswerving Winchester and his level blue eyes seeming to mark each man in the crowd for death. Without taking his gaze from the mob, Jim loosened the noose and lifted it from around Steve’s neck.

  “Where’s your sheriff?” Jim demanded, as Steve pulled great draughts of air into his lungs.

  “Right behind you, Ranger. Just take it easy. I’ve got your back.” From the corner of his eye Jim saw the speaker ease along the boardwalk, the sawed-off shotgun in his hands adding its menace to the Ranger’s Winchester. The man’s shirt was in tatters, blood flowing freely down his face from the gash in his scalp.

  “There’s two of us now, me and the Ranger,” the sheriff growled, “so I suggest all of you clear out and go about your business, because my scattergun here’ll take care of any hombre the Ranger might miss.”

  “Make that three,” Jim added, as he lifted his Colt from its holster and passed it to the still gasping Masters. “I’m givin’ the lot of you two minutes to get movin’. Anyone still standin’ here after that’ll be arrested…or shot.” Mut-

  tering oaths and curses, the men at the edge of the mob began to slip away, nervously eyeing the guns in the lawmen’s hands.

  “What about Dave?” a swarthy cowboy asked, gesturing to the man Jim had shot and who was still curled up in the dirt, groaning in pain while clutching his bullet-punctured shoulder.

  “Reckon you’d best take your boss to Doc Sweeney and get him patched up, Webber, long as it’s agreeable with the Ranger,” the sheriff conceded.

  “That’ll be fine, Sheriff,” Jim agreed. “I’ll head down there with him. Once he’s taken care of I’ll be puttin’ him in your jail on attempted murder charges. Looks like you might want to have the doc put a couple of stitches in your forehead too. And how about you, Steve?”

  “I’m all right, thanks to your good timin’, Jim,” the young Ranger rasped.

  “Sounds like you’d best have the doc look at you too,” Jim differed. “Just to be safe.”

  “I hate to bring this up, Ranger,” the sheriff broke in, “but your friend there is still under arrest for murder.”

  “We’ll talk about that once we’re done at the doctor’s,” Jim flatly replied. “Looks like this mob’s just about finished,” he added, as the few stragglers hurried away. “Which way’s his office?”

  CHAPTER 2

  The sun was already setting when Jim pushed through the door into the sheriff’s office, where Ranger Steve Masters had been returned to his cell. Dave Martin, the man Jim had shot, was still at the doctor’s office, heavily sedated.

  “Reckon we’d better introduce ourselves proper-like now that things have quieted down,” the sheriff stated as Jim entered. “I’m John Crowe. You get your bronc settled in all right?” He shook his head in wonder as he continued, “Never seen a horse tear into a bunch of fellas like that paint of yours did.” Crowe was tall and lean, with wavy brown hair and a thick mustache.

  “Lieutenant Jim Blawcyzk,” came the soft reply. “And yeah, Sam’s rubbed down and in a stall. Yancey’s taken care of too, Steve,” he reassured the anxious Masters. Jim had found the young Ranger’s chestnut cropping grass at the edge of town, where he’d fled from the angry mob.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Steve gratefully replied, “I’m sure glad to see ol’ Sam’s as ornery as ever,” he added, rubbing the raw rope mark around his neck. “Reckon if he hadn’t sent that bunch scatterin’ I’d be under the clay right about now. But I thought you liked to ride into town quiet-like when you start on a case.”

  “You’d better be glad I didn’t this once,” Blawcyzk retorted.

  “BLUH-zhick?” Crowe carefully repeated, as he slid out of the tattered remnants of his shirt, lifted a fresh one from a peg, and shrugged into it. A clean
white bandage was wrapped around his scalp. “Kind of an odd name for a Texan.”

  “It’s Polish,” Jim explained, “My folks were part of a whole bunch of Polish emigrants who settled in Bandera, just outside of San Antonio. Easier if you just call me Jim.”

  “Reckon that’s so,” Crowe chuckled, as he rolled and lit a quirly. “You want some coffee?” He lifted a battered pot from the stove.

  “I could use some,” Blawcyzk admitted.

  “Fine.” Crowe poured three cups of the bitter black brew, handing one to Jim and passing another through the bars of the cell to Steve. “How about a smoke?”

  “No thanks,” Jim replied, “Never got into the habit.”

  “The lieutenant there don’t smoke, drink, or cuss,” Steve chuckled from his cell, “Matter of fact, he’s married and won’t take up with any saloon women…even goes to Sunday Mass whenever he can. However, he and that crazy horse of his do make a habit of chargin’ into the middle of a fight first, then stoppin’ to think afterwards, which I’m sure you’ve already noticed Sheriff. And, unlike Jim, I sure could use a smoke…and a drink.”

  “You’ll have to settle for the smoke, I’m afraid,” Crowe replied, as he passed the makings to Steve. “I don’t keep liquor here in the office. Too much of a temptation.”

  “Then why not let me out of here and I’ll buy you a drink over at the Blue Tail Fly?” Steve offered, as he sprinkled tobacco on paper.

  “Wish I could,” Crowe replied, “but you’re still facin’ a rope, Ranger.”

  “Lieutenant, can’t you tell this stubborn cuss of a sheriff I’d never murder anyone…especially a woman?” Steve pleaded.

  “Gonna have to hear the sheriff’s story first Steve, then I’ll listen to your side,” Jim replied. “How about it, John?”

  Crowe took a swallow of his coffee and a long drag on his quirly before he replied. “There’s not a lot to tell. Coupla’ Saturdays ago, Masters was found unconscious at the Rafter Q’s Sunday house, with his gun in his hand. Lyin’ on the floor nearby was the body of Rebecca Jeffers, wife of Mason Jeffers, owner of the Rafter Q. She’d been shot twice at close range, so close there were powder burns on her dress, and had also been pretty badly beaten. Masters had the smell of liquor all over him, and there was a busted whiskey bottle alongside him. Place was a mess, too. The evidence was pretty clear cut, so I arrested him for Rebecca’s murder. Been holdin’ him here for the circuit judge, with lots of folks screamin’ we didn’t need a trial. I’m kinda surprised it took ‘em this long to try a lynchin’. Rebecca Jeffers was a well-liked woman, and the Rafter Q’s the biggest spread in these parts. Mason Jeffers has a lot of influence in this territory. Martin, the man you plugged, is ramrod of the Rafter Q. Gordon Webber, Gordy Bob as he calls himself, is his segundo. Most of the men stirrin’ up that mob today were Rafter Q punchers.”