The Reluctant Ranger

By Denzel Holmes

Mitt Stone would never again see his four brothers. He stares at a telegram telling him that the oldest, Sam, had been fatally shot. He meets the remaining three in San Antonio. One is well off, one is a hot head with a gun, and one is a devout Christian determined to save his brothers. None has a clue where to start.

The year is 1890.

Their journey, by train and two-horse surrey, to Junction City, Texas, brings them into contact with William J. Burns, a Secret Service agent, and John R. Hughes, a sergeant in the Texas Rangers. Though both men are bored with their assignments – chasing counterfeiters and fence cutters – they won’t stay that way for long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denzel Holmes
• Release date: Nov 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780990783497

Denzel Holmes

Denzel Holmes is the author of eight Western novels, set in Texas and true to the times and places. He grew up in the ranch country of Pecos County, Married his sweetheart Margie when she was 16 and he was 20. Going on 60 years now. They live in Belton and sell their books there and at Canton, Kerrville, Waxahachie, Dripping Springs, Wichita Falls, Madisonville, San Angelo, Georgetown, Round Rock, Nacogdoches, Killeen, Temple, and many other local venues. He speaks to civic, social and library groups where asked.

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CHAPTER 1

Sam Stone kissed his auburn-haired, attractive wife Pearl and gave his teenage daughter Mae a loving hip nudge as he set the milk bucket on the work table and said, Women always take over the house. The world would be better off without women. He ducked the first swipe of her dish towel but the backswing stood his abundant silver hair on end.

Sorry place it would be without women, Mae said. What happens to the milk after you steal it from Darla?

I don’t know, Sam said smiling. I suppose a magic fairy comes along and supplies butter for my bread.

Dark-haired Mae seemed distracted as she dipped and poured the milk into the first of several bottles. She stared through the small window facing toward Junction City’s little business district and Sam’s Store – Stone Pharmacy & Accessories – just across the street. The night sky darkened. Daddy, why did you leave a lamp on in the store? You’re always telling me that it’s dangerous.

Headed for his stuffed chair and a four-day-old copy of the San Antonio Express, Sam said, I didn’t. Must have been you. You’re always wanting to add something else for the Christmas shoppers.

There’s a light on. It’s flickering a little like the air in the store is moving it. No, Daddy, you did it. I went out ahead of you.

Sam had settled into his comfort chair. He knew not to protest. He scooted forward and stood. Are you sure? A lamp on? Am I going senile?

The store was fifty yards away, separated by Main Street, and slightly uphill. Sam had applied for, and got, two free lots in the proposed township of Junction City, Kimble County, Texas. He knew what he wanted. A lot for his business, a lot for his house, and close together, in a new town where there’d be no competition. He had worked hard and done without to finish school, marry, and moved his family here four years ago. Now, the year was 1890. They had sacrificed too. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for them. The orange lamp glowed, enlarged, and called.

Sam charged from the house. What was going on? As he circled the windowed store a dark shadow caught his vision. Some fool was in there. He wouldn’t be there long. Sam swung open the back door. You want to get out of my store at seven o’clock?

A bomb, Sam thought, exploded without warning. Sam slammed against the door facing.

Why are you setting off dynamite in my… He slid down. His vision darkened as he reached for his chest. A figure loomed over him for a second. There was a hat. There was a hand gun. The figure didn’t speak but stepped forward, between Sam’s legs, and exited the back door.

The sound was not dynamite. Why would you do this, son?

***

Mae’s heart leaped as the sound slapped the window pane. She had seen everything from the living room – her father swinging back the door, entering, the shot, and his fall.

Mo...Mother, Daddy’s been shot. He… Words failed as a helpless wail escaped her chest. She raced for the store.

What? Pearl cried. What did you say? But, she heard, dropped her cup towel and leaped forward to run after Mae.

Neither woman thought of her own safety as they sprinted the hundred yards. The only night sounds were their groans of dread. The back door was open. Sam lay face up, his right hand on his chest. Colorless lamp light allowed them to see his knees pull upward.

Pearl dropped to the floor. Her face loomed above Sam’s as she touched his hand and chest. Instantly she knew the warm fluid that covered her fingers. A little gasp escaped, but she wasn’t going to fool Mae anyway.

He’s been shot, baby, but he’s alive. Go get Doctor Fountainbleu. Tell him to come quick. But Mae would not have heard the last instruction. She was ten yards down the street, halfway to the corner house where the doctor lived.

Darling, can you talk to me? Where does it hurt? Can you sit up? Pearl forced herself to hush. She could ask a hundred questions.

Sam’s voice gurgled. Pearl’s eyes overflowed fearing that blood was the cause. He cleared his throat. Hurts all over, but I think it’s my chest. Pearl already knew that.

Who did this, honey? You’ve got to tell me. She stroked his hair. Her husband was a handsome man. She admired his strong chin and firm cheeks. He had never worn whiskers because she said she liked to kiss him bare faced.

It was…it was. Oh, Mama, I don’t know that it matters. He panted and forced a smile. The less fuss we make, the sooner it’ll blow over. His chest heaved and his eyes pulled shut in pain.

Pearl could feel fresh blood pumping from his wound. Sam was delusional. It didn’t matter? He would get over this? She had to know. I know, sweetheart, but I’m your wife. I’ll keep our little secret. But we don’t keep secrets from each other. Remember?

Did you send Mae for Doctor Fountainbleu? His eyelids blinked rapidly. Maybe he ought to take a look at me.

Of course, he ought to take a look at you, Sam Stone. Now, tell me who shot you before he gets here. As she spoke the voices of the doctor and Mae came into range. Tell me, darling. Tell me.

Sam’s gaze turned upward. Hello, Doctor. He cleared his throat. You gonna take a look at this little splinter? Here, I’ll unbutton my… His voice trailed and stopped.

Fountainbleu gently lifted Pearl by the shoulders and kneeled in her place. He didn’t unbutton the shirt, but ripped it from collar to belt in a single motion. My God, he muttered. Lucky he fainted. The pain would be too much. He glanced up. Mae, would you go tell Nate Patterson we need his buckboard? Tell him why, and right away. We’ll move your father to my office. I have a bed in the side room.

Mae stood holding the lantern they had brought. She seemed frozen as she stared at her father’s bleeding chest. Fountainbleu said, Just hand the lantern to your mother and go, girl. It’s important.

Momma, has he said anything? Mae asked her mother.

Just a little. He doesn’t think he’s hurt bad.

Who did it? Mae asked.

He halted when he started to answer. I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out. Now, go get Mr. Patterson and his wagon. The floor darkened as Mae turned away with the lantern. Pearl said, I’ll get the lamp from over there, she pointed and stepped to the storefront. Fountainbleu followed.

Out of earshot from Sam, Fountainbleu said, Pearl, I must tell you. She turned, holding the lamp. Sam won’t live. Blood is pumping from an artery near his heart. There’s no hope. But he may linger for a few days. I’ve seen that. Fountainbleu, a small, gentle man, eased a hand around Pearl’s shoulder and ushered the quivering woman back to her dying husband.

CHAPTER 2

Mitt Stone tied the lines from his team of horses to the hitching rail in front of Ballinger’s only general store. Broad black letters above the porch roof said, Randle’s. Beside the door a nailed-on yellow sign read: Western Union. He made the tie loose to allow Hudson and Milky to reach the watering trough as both geldings nudged him with their noses to get at the cool liquid. The eighteen-mile trot from Mitt’s ranch to town had been non-stop. He would go first to the next-door Post Office and retrieve the accumulation of two-weeks’ mail. There should be little unless one of his brothers had written. Maybe Abe from San Antonio, the more faithful writer. He would love to hear from Sam in Junction City, or receive a rare missive from his Mexico siblings, Jake and Tommy. He stepped onto the boardwalk as Walker Baldwin emerged from the store.

Howdy, Mitt. Walker’s head sported a cap bill with no top. His wide suspenders held up baggy butternut trousers. Arm garters bound his biceps and lifted his sleeves a bit. Walker was young but he wore thick bifocal lens and held a beige paper in his hand. Just got this in. Didn’t know what to do with it, you living way out in the country like you do. Seems urgent. He handed the telegram to Mitt.

ten dec eighteen ninety eleven a m sam stone shot in his store stop wont live stop have told other brothers stop come if you can stop pearl.

Mitt’s heart thumped to his feet. His gaze held to the continuous print, seeking denial or confirmation. He never felt more alone. Walker’s voice disrupted. You know how to read a telegram, Mitt? A finger thrust onto the paper. Just think of the ‘stops’ like a… Mitt jerked the message back.

I know how to read. He glared at Baldwin. When did this come in? Yesterday? Today? What time?

Walker stepped back and licked his lips. About an hour ago. It’s dated today, so I guess the lady…What’s her name?

Pearl.

I reckon she sent it just a little while ago. He cleared his throat. You, uh, want to send her a telegram back?

Yeah, I better do that. The trouble with telegrams is that if nobody’s there to get it, might be a week before you learn about it. Mitt wished he could take his team of tired horses, drive out of town and scream for half an hour first. As they tramped the worn plank floor toward the back Mitt avoided eye contact with Seth and Judy Randle behind the counter who would want to chat endlessly.

Walker entered his cage as Mitt positioned himself at the window. He handed Mitt a pad and a short, dull pencil. "You don’t have to put the word stop in there, Mitt. I’ll do that."

Mitt, age 44, and four inches taller than Walker, again glared at the young man. His wife Lydia said his gaze was intimidating, the way his eyebrows arched inward and pupils narrowed. When Walker stepped back and bumped the shelves behind him, Mitt said, Just give me a minute, Walker. Give me a minute.

For ninety seconds he struggled to keep a straight face, and did, except for chewing his lip. He wrote, keep him alive. I’ll leave immediately. Mitt. He pushed the note toward Walker, then pulled it back. Wait. Let me fix that. It doesn’t make any sense. He scratched through the keep him alive line.

He told Walker to put the sixty-seven-cent charge on his store account. He turned to the counter where Seth and Judy Randle diverted their gaze from staring at his back. He approached pulling a note from his vest pocket. Afternoon, Seth and Judy. Didn’t mean to be unfriendly. He thumbed over his shoulder. Just got some bad news. My brother’s been shot down at Junction City.

Mitt had to endure their expressions of grief and the usual exchange of questions and answers. Randle swept a hand down his gray Confederate veteran’s beard and said, Is there anything we can do for you?

Mitt seized the moment. There is, Seth. I could use some help. I want to take the train and go down there as soon as possible. If you could fill this grocery list and drive my team back to the ranch, I’d be much obliged.

I’ll get Walker to do it. He can lead his horse behind and ride him home. Seth Randle reached for the grocery and supply list.

Mitt said, I’ll step over to the post office and get my mail. You can stick it in one of the boxes or sacks. And, before I forget it, I’ll have to write the Missus a note and tell her what I’m up to. I ought to go home, but I’ll lose two whole days if I do.

At the post office Mitt spoke to Leland Mills, the aging postmaster who handed up a bundle of mail without being asked. Mitt didn’t dare mention his dilemma but sorted through the letters and fliers quickly while making small talk. Kinda in a hurry, Leland, Mitt said as he turned. Let’s talk about the goat business when I come back in. He knew Mills had seen the officious envelope from the San Angelo Livestock Auction, and the man owned a small ranch just outside of town.

Out of Leland’s sight, Mitt tore off the end of the envelope. Inside was what he had hoped. A check for $550.12 for the net proceeds for the bunch of Angora goats sold at the San Angelo auction in early November. His eyes misted as he gazed toward a blue December sky. He needed that money so bad if he was going to be able to help Sam and Pearl. Is this an omen, God? Are you helpin’ me right now? His whispered voice choked. Silently he added, Please help Sam.

Mitt held his faith so private that Lydia hardly knew what he believed. It had been a source of conflict when he put off going to church with her and the kids. He couldn’t accept that if one prayed, and as long as he was sincere, God would answer in due time. And, he couldn’t abide the droning sermons on the temperatures of Hell, a concept he simply didn’t believe, and his studies of the Bible said most preachers had it wrong. As he paced back to Randle’s store, he thanked God silently for the check, then wondered, will I retract my appreciation if God doesn’t deliver Sam from his wounds?

Two hours later Mitt stuffed a soft-sided valise under the seat in the passenger car of the Santa Fe Local, as the run was called between Ballinger and San Angelo, and from there to Temple, Texas. Inside it, he carried a new shirt, underwear, socks, and his .45 Colt Frontier model, its holster and rolled belt, and a box of cartridges bought at Randle’s. The store manager gave him four hundred dollars – all the cash he had – and credited Mitt’s account for the rest of the check. Mitt would have to buy extra clothes somewhere along the way. He had worn to town his tweed suit, a white shirt and black tie, with long cotton underwear underneath. Coming into town somewhat dressed up was an old habit but the underwear and suit coat felt good against the December wind. He would need other supplies too, like a straight razor. And no telling what expenses he may face when the trains moved him to Junction City, by way of San Antonio and Kerrville.

The two-day trip, and the stayover at Temple, would give Mitt time to think. Already he fought the racing of his mind and the frustration of loneliness and indecision. How he longed for his brothers, Jake, Abe, and Tommy. What comfort they would bring. Alone, he felt the full weight of the tragedy, the burden Pearl must feel without her beloved Sam to help her. Those poor kids, Mitt thought. Ida, grown and married, but she, surely, had received the news, and Willie, Sam’s only son, who was frail and sickly as a young man. Mitt wondered if Willie would ever overcome it. Mae, the youngest daughter, and a near perfect image of her gorgeous Aunt Ruth – black hair, flawless ivory skin, and blue eyes that could melt hearts. He was proud for Sam that he had been the Stone son to procreate this perfect facsimile of their sister Ruth, now deceased.

With the Ballinger station far behind, Mitt recalled those days some twelve years earlier when, by chance, he had been instrumental in meeting out justice to the savage animal who had cruelly murdered Ruth’s daughter Amy in San Antonio. He cornered the beast in Belton, Texas, where the man loved horse racing too much to hide his tracks. Even then, Mitt told himself, he had not sought revenge, but justice. All along, he wanted to identify the criminal and turn him over to the law. When the authorities showed little interest, well, maybe he and his pals, Bob, M.L., and Gil, had taken justice into their own hands…

We had him caught. Then things went haywire. I’m glad it worked out, and we didn’t go to prison. But if this Sam thing is gonna be Belton all over, uh… He had to finish the thought. I’m not going to seek revenge. I know how angry I get. Jake is more level headed. Abe is too. Tommy is a hothead, but Jake can control him. If they are there, they’ll take the decision off my shoulders…No revenge.

A voice in his head, just a rambling thought as Mitt was prone to have, asked, then why did you bring that forty-five, and why did you buy those shells?

CHAPTER 3

When Mitt’s feet landed on the platform in San Antonio, he headed for the telegraph office where he knew on the wall would hang that strange contraption called a telephone. Actual voices traveled for miles, or hundreds of miles, by tiny wires, and two people could talk to each other, and even sound familiar, although high pitched. He hated the damned things. But he would try to telephone his brother Abe, who lived there.

The evening was early although dark prevailed on the sodden streets of the Alamo city except for inadequate street lights. But not so inadequate as the old days. Electricity made it possible to see one’s hand before his face but maybe not read fine print. Inside, Mitt asked if he could use the telephone, then realized he had no clue how to do so. Uhm, I want to call my brother. He lives here in San Antonio. He had the ear piece in his hand and stared at the mouthpiece.

A well-groomed lady, gray hair, spectacles, and lace collar, said, Turn the crank. She pointed, then did it for Mitt. He winced. When the operator comes on, tell the name you want to call.

You mean, just tell him my brother’s name? That’s all I do?

The lady frowned. You’re from the country, I take it. Yes, that’s all you do. If your brother is home, he will answer the telephone and you can talk to him. If, after several rings – I’d give it about ten – you can give up and put the earpiece back on the hook. She pointed. Oh, by the way, the voice you hear first will be a female.

Female? Oh, I said ‘him.’ Mitt forced a smile and waited.

I want to talk to Abe, uh, Abraham Stone, please. Mitt never felt dumber.

The whirring sound repeated five times. Mitt tried to count. After the sixth whirr, the sound turned to a crackle and died. Then, a voice said, Hello.

Mitt said, Hello, Abe. Is that you? This is Mitt. Your brother. Mitt.

Mitt heard, Lemme talk, Papa. Lemme talk. Get down, son. This is important.

The litany of strange sounds annoyed Mitt – rattling paper, wire, furniture, and a garbled music with singing. Abe had eight kids. Mitt, are you still there?

I’m here, Abe. Any news about Sam? Mitt waited, and waited.

Mitt, he’s gone. I got up there a few hours before he died. We talked a little. Are you calling all the way from Ballinger?

Mitt swallowed his grief as his voice choked. Gone… Ah, brother, I guess I should have known. I’m, I’m… no,… I’m not calling from Ballinger. I’m here in San Antonio.

San Antonio? At the train station? Gimme time to hitch Daisy and I’ll be down there to pick you up. Don’t eat anything. Rhoda will feed you.

***

Rhoda, Abe’s plump wife, and mother of eight, still showed the beauty that attracted Abe some eighteen years before. Her dark hair was fixed as if she’d done it while Abe went to fetch Mitt. The kids were dressed and their hair in place. Abe gloried in having named the baby for Sam.

The children stood in line to hug their Uncle Mitt who dropped to a knee and spoke to each one with a personal message. I think you’re purtier than your brother Millard.

He stroked Mary Jane’s hair and said, I love those golden locks.

To Wanda he asked, Where’d you get that curly hair? The older boy, Bob, got, "Now, I think you look the most like your Uncle Mitt." He did lots of back patting.

Rhoda fed Mitt until his eyes bulged, but he loved every bite. Chicken and gravy, rolls, mashed potatoes, apple pie. Again, he hugged the children and stood to squeeze Rhoda close, sensing that Abe wanted to put them to bed so the men could talk. Rhoda, a woman of her day, understood that.

Mitt watched Abe’s ample form move to the one stuffed chair. Mitt had thought his brother would offer it to him.

Mitt sat cross-legged in a straight-backed wooden chair as Abe said, Mitt, Sam knew who his killer was. He ducked his head and squeezed his eyes.

Who? Abe, tell me. You got to tell me. Mitt sat forward. Don’t let this die, Abe. He stared.

Abe shook his head. Tears rolled. He didn’t say. He just said, well, he said, I didn’t think that boy would do that."

It was somebody he knew. Did you press him for the name? Abe, you… did you press him?

Oh, Mitt, I wished, I prayed for you at that moment. You always know what to say, what to do. When I got through prayin’, why, Sam had slipped into one of his short comas. You know what I mean?

Mitt frowned. No, I don’t know what you mean. Did you get a name or not?

Abe drew a sob then straightened. I believe in Almighty God, Mitt. Do you? Besides, Jake and Tommy will be here maybe tomorrow. They’re coming up from Mexico. Abe turned his face away.

Oh, I’ve prayed for a reunion of us five brothers. He stopped and looked at his fingers. Four now. What did you ask? A name? No, didn’t get a name.

When Abe didn’t go on, Mitt breathed comfort that the remaining four would meet. The burden wouldn’t be his as they traveled to Junction City. He still had one older brother: Jake.

***

Mitt spent two nights with Abe and Rhoda, enjoying the energetic children and Rhoda’s superb cooking. He visited Abe at the lumber yard and helped with loading wagons. At last the telephone rang. Jake and Tommy waited at the train station.

For several minutes the four men forgot their grief as they hugged and joked on the platform of the San Antonio depot. Jake looked dapper and well, fully recovered from the bullet wound that penetrated his chest from back to front and swept him to the valley of death for weeks while Mitt nursed him under primitive conditions back during the War Between the States. Mitt shuddered in recall of the awful gunfight that wreaked vengeance on the perpetrator in a cold saloon in Floresville, Texas, a few years later. He had never seen a cooler man under pressure than Jake Stone.

Tommy, the youngest brother, compact, curly black hair, a pencil thin mustache, and handsome, was dressed in a brown wool business suit, and looked the part of a successful businessman. His dark complexion approached that of a Mexicano. Once in a while, the shift of his gaze reminded Mitt of a gunfighter who never let his back stay turned for long. When they hugged, Mitt felt the certain bulge of a shoulder mounted revolver. He was not surprised.

The four returned to Abe’s house for a meal. At the suggestion of staying the night, Mitt said, We’ve got to get on up there and see if we can help. Jake and Tommy nodded.

I’m going back with you, Abe replied while chewing a fresh dinner roll. I’ve got two good men at the lumber yard. They know how to run things and they know what’s happened to our family. I can be gone a few days.

Fine, Jake said as he pulled out his gold pocket watch. Let’s see if we can catch that three o’clock up to Kerrville. You know we’ll have to rent a buggy or something there. No rail on into Junction City.

Mitt felt a wave of depression. The cost of this trip could soar. We can share that expense, boys. No use puttin’ the whole burden on any one.

When Jake and Tommy remained silent, Mitt frowned. Did I say something wrong?

I can cover that expense, Mitt. Y’all don’t have to worry about that.

Mitt laughed. I could get the impression you were rich, Jake. Sounds like you plan to pick up the expenses for all of us.

Jake didn’t laugh, didn’t smile and didn’t speak. Tommy said. I guess you’re behind on things, Mitt. Didn’t Jake send you a picture of his new house?

"No, I guess not. Last letter I had said he was buildin’ one. I was glad he was getting out of the sotol jacal." Mitt referred to the upright stick shack that Jake and Dolly endured when they first arrived in Mexico.

Jake sniggered as he reached into his coat and pulled out papers and sorted. Yeah, it’s a promotion from that. He eyed a photograph in his hand. You might say I struck gold in Mexico. But the truth is, it’s just a good vein of copper. He handed the photo to Mitt.

A hillside view showed a stucco and tile structure extending beyond the picture’s borders. Mitt could see a sprawling mansion of some thirty-five hundred square feet, the center section two-story, and a ten-acre fence with fountains and trees. Men in white peasant attire and large straw hats worked the yard. The black and white likeness denied the color of the bounty of flowers along the wall and in circles around the oaks. Mitt’s heart swelled with pride for his only living older brother. At least one Stone had found success. Aw, man, brother. How long you been in Mexico? Twenty years?

Twenty-two. They say the way to make a small fortune in Mexico is to go down there with a large fortune. Jake held up while the chuckles died. I fooled ‘em. Started with nothing. So, I had only one way to go. He jerked a thumb toward Tommy. Couldn’t have made it without this hotshot. He keeps the peace for us. He owns a tenth of the business now.

Tommy grinned. I don’t have a head for business. Drinking, gambling, and general carousing is more my style. He glanced sidelong toward Jake.

Not anymore, little brother. Celina, that Mexcin wife o’ yours will hang you to a cactus if you keep carousin’, as you call it.

Tommy’s eyes widened. Uh, yeah, that’s what I meant. I’ve quit them things.

Mitt joined the fun. One thing about it. There’s no temptation in Junction City. I’m told that the last woman there, an old Indian, died back in ’76. The trick is, to get you away from San Antonio’s enticements before dark. He glanced around. Reckon we ought to head for the train?

***

On board and moving, Mitt and Jake sat in a bench seat behind