The Faith and the Rangers Read online

  “I don’t think I can let you ride with me,” Judwin answered. “This is the Hardisty outfit I’m after. They’re one of the most vicious gangs to ever hit Texas. We’ll be outnumbered ten to one.”

  “I’ve got nothing left,” Sheehan replied. “My wife’s dead, and she meant everything to me. Anything of value on the spread’s been taken, and the stock all driven off. There’s nothing holding me here. Besides, you can’t stop me from following you. When you do catch up with Hardisty and his men, my gun’ll sure come in handy.”

  Judwin rubbed his jaw thoughtfully before answering.

  “I reckon you’re right, Jake. I’ll water my horse while you saddle up. The longer we stand here jawin’ the more distance those renegades can put between us.”

  3

  It was around ten o’clock the next night when the Ranger and cowboy reined their horses to a halt on the edge of the Rio Grande. The tracks of the outlaws’ horses led straight to the riverbank.

  “Well, it looks like they beat us into Mexico,” Sheehan sighed. “I don’t know about you, Ben, but I’m still goin’ after ‘em.”

  “The border ain’t gonna stop me,” Judwin answered.

  “But your Ranger badge ain’t worth a dime in Mexico,” Sheehan protested.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Judwin explained. “Those renegades have got to pay for what they did to Bill. Besides, someone has to stop them before they do any more killin’. Appears it’s up to us, so I’ll either bring them back to Texas or die trying. And no matter what else happens, Clete Hardisty is gonna die with my slugs in his belly, or hang. Let’s go.”

  Judwin put his steeldust into the shallow water. Sheehan and his sorrel gelding were close behind. The river, low this time of year, barely came to the horses’

  bellies as they reached midstream, then climbed the bank onto Mexican soil. Once the horses had shaken themselves off, their riders pushed them into a dead run yet again.

  The two men, one determined to see justice done, the other seeking revenge for the death of his wife, rode hard for half an hour, then slowed their mounts to a walk. They moved cautiously now, since they could not chance riding up on their quarry unexpectedly. It was an hour later when Judwin caught the faintest whiff of wood smoke, and reined Charcoal to a halt. The dim entrance to an arroyo was just ahead.

  “Hold it, Jake,” he ordered. “I’ll bet my hat that’s Hardisty’s bunch up there in that canyon. We’d best walk from here. We’ll take the horses along, in case we need them in a hurry. Make sure your sorrel stays quiet.”

  Sheehan clamped his hand over the gelding’s nose.

  “He won’t make a sound.”

  “Good. Let’s check our guns before we head in there.”

  Quickly, and as silently as possible, the two men checked the actions of their Colts and Winchesters.

  “What if there’s a guard?” Sheehan questioned.

  “I doubt there’ll be one,” Judwin explained. “Those hombres probably figure no one’ll follow ‘em into

  Mexico. We’re goin’ to show them how wrong they are. Let’s move.”

  Judwin paused for a moment.

  “Jake, if we don’t come out of this, I want to thank you for siding me.”

  “Por nada,” Sheehan shrugged. “I’m just grateful you let me ride along, so I’ll have a chance to get even for what they did to Becky.”

  Leading their horses, the Ranger and cowboy headed slowly up-canyon. They rounded a bend, and could now see the flickering of a campfire behind a cluster of boulders. The voices of the outlaws drifted through the still air.

  “Those sons of Satan,” Sheehan hissed. “They’re bragging about what they did to my Becky.”

  Indeed, the outlaws were raucously celebrating the success of their latest foray into Texas, boasting about how much they had stolen, the women they had violated and the men they’d killed.

  “They won’t be braggin’ for long,” Judwin promised. “Let’s circle ‘em.”

  “Just give me time to get in place,” Sheehan answered.

  While Sheehan disappeared into the dark, Judwin pinned his badge to his shirt and leveled the Winchester

  he carried. He waited two minutes, then stepped around the boulders to emerge into the renegades’ campsite. At the same moment, Sheehan appeared from the opposite side of the rocks.

  Judwin’s voice cut through the dark like the crack of a whip.

  “Texas Ranger, boys! You’re all under arrest. Don’t try for your guns unless you’re lookin’ for a bellyful of lead.”

  The stunned outlaws fell silent, frozen for a moment in disbelief that their hiding place had been discovered. Then, with a curse one of them went for his gun. Judwin dropped him with a bullet through the stomach.

  The rest of the renegades pulled their guns and began firing. Their vision still dimmed from gazing at the fire and their targets shrouded in darkness, the outlaws could only fire blindly in the direction of Judwin’s voice and the flashes from Sheehan’s rifle. Seven of them went down with Judwin’s or Sheehan’s bullets in them.

  Judwin heard a grunt of pain. He glanced sideways to see Sheehan staggering from the bullet which had slammed into his side. Sheehan jacked another shell into the chamber of his Winchester and fired. The bullet ripped through a cursing outlaw’s throat. Sheehan fired again, and another desperado went down. Then an outlaw’s slug tore through Sheehan’s thigh, dropping him to one knee.

  Judwin put a bullet through another renegade’s belly, the man screeching in agony as he jackknifed. The Ranger was slammed back against the rocks by a bullet which struck him high in the chest. His return shot plowed into the chest of the man who’d shot him.

  Jake Sheehan had tossed aside his now-empty rifle. He held a Colt in each hand, blazing away at the outlaws. However, the remaining men had recovered from their initial surprise, and were aiming more precisely. Bullets were thudding into the cowboy’s chest and stomach. His desire for revenge keeping him upright long after he should have been stretched out in the dirt, Sheehan gunned down several more of the killers, until Pete Stone put two finishing bullets into him. Both slugs buried themselves deep in the cowboy’s gut. Stone cursed in triumph when Sheehan began to sag. With one final effort, Sheehan fired twice more, his bullets ripping into Stone’s chest. Stone was slammed onto his back, dead. As Stone fell, Jake Sheehan crumpled to the ground.

  Ben Judwin had also taken several more of the outlaws’ bullets. He was braced against a Boulder, his vision was beginning to blur, and he could barely keep level the Colts he now held while he shot at the few surviving members of the Hardisty gang. He was vaguely aware of the screams of a badly injured horse, then another, and realized outlaws’ slugs had found his and Jake’s mounts.

  Tex Lloyd, Hardisty’s next in command after Pete Stone, had crawled undetected to within a few feet of Judwin. He lifted his .44 Remington, fired, and put a bullet low into the Ranger’s belly. Judwin dropped one of his pistols. He clamped a hand to his gut, buckling, but still managed to aim his other revolver at Lloyd’s head and put a slug between his eyes.

  As Judwin began to double over, another bullet ripped into his chest, slamming him back against the rocks. Through his fading vision, Judwin saw Clete Hardisty closing in. A wicked grin twisted the outlaw’s powder-streaked face.

  “I’ve got you, Ranger,” he sneered.

  Before the outlaw leader could thumb back the hammer of his sixgun, Judwin fired twice, both slugs taking Hardisty in the stomach. Hardisty began to slump. Judwin put his last two bullets through the killer’s belly.

  “That was for Bill Pierson,” Judwin muttered, as Hardisty hit the ground.

  Judwin gazed at the Colt he still held, the Colt Peacemaker that had belonged to his partner, Ranger Bill Pierson.

  “I reckon it’s over,” he half-whispered, then slowly collapsed to his face. />
  With the last of his rapidly ebbing strength, Judwin dragged himself to where Jake Sheehan lay, face-down in a puddle of blood. He rolled the cowboy onto his back.

  Sheehan’s eyes flickered open.

  “Ben…did we get them…all?” he weakly gasped.

  “We got them all,” Judwin answered.

  The cowboy let out a last long sigh. The Ranger’s eyes slowly closed as he took his final breath.

  4

  Several weeks later, the Rangers of Company D were speculating about what had happened to the new Ranger who had been riding with Bill Pierson to join them. Captain Daniel Moore had received a telegram informing him of Pierson’s death; however, no further word had been received about Ben Judwin. It was a chilly night where they were camped along the Rio Grande. A full moon brightly illuminated their campsite and the muddy river.

  “I guess the kid lost his nerve after seeing Bill dying with those bullets in him,” Sergeant Jim Huggins theorized.

  “I don’t know,” Bob Murphey mused. “I met Judwin up in Austin, when he was first thinking of joinin’ up. He didn’t seem like the type who’d turn yellow to me.”

  “Rider comin’ in, Captain,” Lefty Hall, the sentry, announced.

  Fifteen minutes later, a middle-aged Mexican, riding a wiry pinto, rode into the camp and dismounted.

  “You are the capitan, Senor, si?” he questioned, looking straight at Moore.

  “I’m the captain of this Ranger company, yes,” Moore confirmed. “What do you want, hombre?”

  “Capitan, I am Don Jose de la Vega. I own a large rancho just outside of Guerrero, close to the Rio Bravo. Quite some time back, I heard the sounds of a horrific gun battle, not far from my hacienda. When the next morning came, I went to investigate. I found many men who had died from bullet wounds, twenty-two to be precise.”

  “Yes, yes. And did you recognize any of those dead hombres?” Moore impatiently asked.

  “Si, Capitan,” de la Vega replied. “Most of them were muy malo hombres, best avoided. They were the men who rode with Clete Hardisty.”

  “You mean the Hardisty gang is wiped out?” Moore asked in disbelief.

  “Si, Capitan,” the Mexican confirmed. “However, two of the dead men were off from the rest. One of them wore this.”

  De la Vega handed Moore a half-finished star on circle badge.

  “A Ranger badge?” Moore exclaimed. “What’d the man wearing this look like?”

  “Blonde, very slim, light brown eyes,” de la Vega described. “He and his compadre must have been muy valeroso hombres, to take on the Hardisty gang with such odds against them.”

  “Ben Judwin,” Moore half-whispered. “He didn’t run after all.”

  “Senor, what did you do with the bodies?” he asked de la Vega.

  “The bodies of Hardisty and his men I left for the coyotes and buzzards, for that is all they deserved. But I buried the man wearing this badge, and his compadre, in a small grove of cottonwoods. Such bravery must be respected.”

  “Indeed,”, Moore assented. “Gracias, Senor de la Vega. Would you care to spend the rest of the night here with us, so you can rest? We still have hot coffee and warm beans on the fire.”

  “Gracias, Capitan. I would appreciate that very much indeed,” de la Vega gratefully accepted.

  Later, with most of the Rangers still awake, two horses’ whinnies, loud and insistent, drifted across the camp. Several of the Rangers’ mounts answered. The men looked toward the ridge from where the sound had come.

  “I don’t believe what I’m seein’!” Captain Moore exclaimed.

  “We haven’t been drinkin’, so it ain’t the red-eye,” Lefty Hall declared.

  Up on the ridge the ghostly images of two men, one wearing a Ranger badge and riding a steeldust, the other riding a sorrel, were clearly visible under the light of the full moon.

  “That’s Ben Judwin!” Bob Murphey shouted.

  While the Rangers watched, the two men reared their horses, whirled them around, and galloped off.

  “Those are the men I buried,” de la Vega stated, in awe. He dropped to his knees and made the Sign of the Cross.

  The Rangers of Company D stood in stunned silence, until Captain Moore finally whispered, “Adios, Ranger Judwin and your pardner. Vaya con Dios!”

  The Faith and The Rangers

  Prologue

  Bandera, Texas February 2, 1855

  Two young men, in Roman clerical collars and black coats, descended from the stagecoach. Three others awaiting their arrival hurried up to them.

  “Father Nowicki? Father Jankowski? I’m Thomas Mazurek. Allow me to introduce Franz Jureczki and Kaspar Kalka. Welcome to Bandera. We’re very pleased to have you here, since we’ve been anxious to start our parish. How was your trip?”

  Mazurek was a sturdily built man who worked in the cypress shingle mill. He spoke in his native Polish.

  “Thank you. We’re happy to have received this assignment,” Father Robert Nowicki answered, also in Polish. “Our journey was rather long and tiring. We would like to freshen up a bit.”

  “Of course,” Mazurek replied. “We’ll get your luggage and take you to Maria Bish’s boarding house. You’ll be staying there until the rectory is completed.”

  The priests climbed into Kalka’s waiting buckboard. Their belongings were retrieved from the stage and loaded into the wagon. Once that was completed, the parishioners joined them. Kalka picked up the reins and slapped them on the horses’ rumps, putting the team into a brisk walk.

  “Have you chosen a name for the church, Thomas?” Father Stefan Jankowski queried.

  “Yes, Father. It will be Ul. Stanislawa Kosciol. The bishop has already given his approval.”

  “Saint Stanislaus Church,” Father Jankowski translated. “Excellent choice.”

  1

  Bandera, Spring 1878

  “Father Nowicki? That rancher, Jack Taylor, is here again. Shall I tell him you’re busy?”

  “No, Regina,” the pastor told his gray-haired housekeeper. “You may send him in. I must say, he is persistent.”

  “He’s a pain in the dupa,” Regina Grosecki mumbled under her breath. Aloud she answered, “Very well, Father.”

  She bustled out of the pastor’s office.

  “Mister Taylor, Father will see you. Although why he allows you to keep pestering him is beyond my understanding. Perhaps he hopes to save your immortal soul. I’ll say a rosary for you myself. You need all the prayers you can get.”

  Father Nowicki frowned, but couldn’t suppress a chuckle at the feisty, widowed housekeeper’s scolding of the most influential rancher in the county. He rose from his chair when Jack Taylor entered the office.

  “Hello, Father. I hope you don’t mind my stopping by so early.”

  “Not at all, Mister Taylor. Please, have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  Taylor settled into a straight-backed chair, which seemed barely able to hold his weight. He was a big man, close to six feet tall and almost two hundred pounds, broad-shouldered and lean-waisted, tanned from years of exposure to sun and wind. Dark brown eyes peered from under his broad-brimmed hat. He removed the Stetson to uncover a shock of brown hair.

  Father Nowicki settled behind his desk once the rancher was seated.

  “May I have Regina bring you some coffee?” he asked.

  “No thank you, Father,” Taylor replied. “My time is limited. I just came by to ask if you have reconsidered my offer.”

  “There is nothing to reconsider. I thought I made that clear the last time we met.”

  “You did, but I want to be absolutely certain you’re aware how much your land means to me.”

  “Not my land. The parish’s,” Nowicki clarified.

  “Of course. The parish’s,” Taylor repeated. “Father, yo
ur parish controls a considerable amount of water

  rights, along with some good grazing land. So do several of your parishioners. I need that water and land for my ranch. Certainly you can understand that. My herds are growing, and Bandera has become a central point for organizing trail drives from Texas to Kansas and Montana. I am willing to raise my offer for your buildings and land. But I do want them.”

  “And as we have discussed numerous times, Saint Stanislaus Parish is willing to negotiate an agreement to share those water rights, which will be mutually beneficial to both the parish and yourself. There is more than enough water for all of us. In addition, some of the land might be available for lease.”

  “Father, that isn’t good enough,” Taylor insisted. “I must have complete control of that land and water. Just having access to some of the water won’t do. You can build another church nearly anyplace, but I can’t find water everywhere. If you talk sense to your parishioners they’ll go along. Once you give up the church’s property they’ll be willing to sell theirs.”

  The normally even-tempered pastor struggled to maintain his composure. His clipped words came out softly, but edged.

  “Mister Taylor, our community has been here since 1855. We came to a strange land and fought both man and nature to survive. The men worked long hours in the shingle mill to support their families. We celebrated

  Mass in parishioners’ homes for the first three years, until we were able to erect a log structure for a temporary place of worship. We made many sacrifices, and struggled to raise funds to build a proper church. Our sanctuary was completed only two years ago. The Sisters of the Immaculate Conception arrived a few years back to staff our school. Their convent was built two years before the church. Many of our deceased members are buried in the old cemetery on church grounds. My parishioners’ lands are their homes, homes they could never have hoped to own in their native land. You cannot expect them to start over.”