Ruidoso

By Robert F. Augustine

The novel opens just east of Big Spring, Texas in 1880, where Frank McLeod, a respected Texas Ranger, is in flight to avoid capture for the shooting of another ranger. A warrant has been issued for his arrest based on false testimony. The man he is accused of killing had died with the word Ruidoso on his lips; Frank sets out for New Mexico Territory, following this single clue. He is tracked by Pedro Vasquez, a capable but vicious ranger, who plans to take Frank any way he can . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 27, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469111407

Robert F. Augustine

The author is a retired USAF aviator and veteran of Vietnam. Following his retirement, he moved to Crystal River, Florida, where he earned a Bachelor’s and a Master of Arts degree with honors in geography at the University of Florida. He later served as adjunct professor of geography at that university. More recently he completed a second career as cartographer and physical scientist with what is now the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. Soon to be published projects include several novels in period western as well as contemporary mystery genres. He is a native of northern Illinois (Aurora) but now lives in Falls Church, Virginia.

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Copyright © 2008 by Robert F. Augustine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter One

Frank McLeod urged his exhausted mount into the shallow West Texas draw. His horse had stumbled twice in the past three hundred yards and its breathing was labored and harsh. McLeod had neither seen nor heard his pursuer for more than eight hours, but he knew that Pete Vasquez would still be back there. If Vasquez was anything, he was relentless, and he wouldn’t quit until one of them was dead; although many men had tried to arrange it, Vasquez was definitely not dead.

Like McLeod, Vasquez was an experienced Texas Ranger. In fact, at seventeen, he had been the youngest ranger ever recruited when he signed up along with McLeod, in 1873. Even now, he was still a young man at only twenty-four. He was fast and smart but, unlike McLeod, he seldom brought his men in alive. McLeod wasn’t afraid of Vasquez, but he had always walked clear of him; The young man had a crazy side.

Today was Sunday the first of April 1880 and, for the first time in his life, McLeod was on the wrong side of the law. He was persona non grata in the Texas Rangers with a wanted notice out on him for the loathsome act of murdering a fellow ranger. It was an unsought compliment to McLeod that Charlie Goodnight, the ranger chief in Austin, had selected Vasquez to bring him in. One thing McLeod knew for sure; Vasquez took his assignments seriously. In fact, the man had an insane personal pride in his skill at tracking and in his blazing speed with a six gun. Pride in his professional skills only shaded his pride in conquest over women by a hair. Strangely, his taste in women ran more to jaded dance hall girls than the socially acceptable, if less-experienced, girls from the right side of the tracks. He treated his women terribly, often cruelly, but none-the-less, they flocked to him.

Well past noon now, almost one o’clock probably, McLeod hadn’t eaten since the afternoon before. On the other hand, McLeod’s stallion had enjoyed several days’ rest and good feed in Abilene and had started this jaunt glossy and fat. The pace and the West Texas desert had taken its toll, however, and his horse was now stumbling and breathing hoarsely as he bravely negotiated the precarious slope down into the steep-sided, but shallow draw. In the narrow gully, McLeod finally hauled in gently on the reins and slipped out of the saddle.

All right, boy, McLeod murmured, as he led his tired horse slowly down the dry, cobbled draw. Let’s take a breather. We might even find some good water down here a ways.

There had been heavy spring rains in the sandy hills to the west, and up on the Caprock Escarpment to the north. Some of that water must certainly have reached this far into the West Texas high desert. Actually, in his present state, McLeod couldn’t be sure that he was still in Texas. He had left Abilene in the dark, riding west, sometime after ten o’clock last night, and had pressed his mount hard almost fifteen hours in the saddle.

Just shy of Big Spring, McLeod had veered north off the main road out of Abilene and since then had been riding rough through a stony near-desert landscape studded with sage, cactus, and sparse scrub oak. He had turned west after a while, keeping the pole star on his right shoulder during the night as well as he could, only riding around the steepest slopes, sometimes to the north and sometimes to the south. With luck, he might have covered fifty or sixty miles, most of it just about due west.

Leading his horse now, McLeod followed the narrow draw generally northwest. As much as possible, he stayed in the dabs of dappled shade on the steeper south side of the gravelly draw, but soon, even this small relief disappeared as the dry gully suddenly broadened and opened up into more familiar territory. Here and there now, small pools of water appeared as the widening gully merged with another larger draw. This was Sulfur Springs Draw—it was not flowing much, but there was water in it, a foot or more in the deeper pools. He knew now that he was still in Texas. Trees lined the south side of the familiar stream much of the way, mostly cottonwoods, some of them large with a few scrub oaks. There were several broad, still pools and he selected one of these with a flat, rocky bottom to let his big horse drink.

McLeod stripped off his narrow, polished-leather, shotgun style chaps and hooked them to the saddle horn. Leaving his horse to drink, he waded through stinking, silty mud and ankle-deep water to another, unroiled, pool to fill both of his canteens. Finally, sloshing back to his mount, he gathered the loose reins and tugged the animal upstream toward the shade of an enormous cottonwood. He tethered him in the shade of the spreading giant, within easy reach of the cool water.

Seeking out a broad, smooth rock, some five yards away, McLeod crossed the sandy bank and sat down in the shade. He wearily, removed his Stetson and ran his fingers through his longish, brown, sweat-darkened hair and, with some relief, he unbuckled his stubby spurs and tugged off his wet, muddy boots and socks. He was proud of these handmade boots, bought at Lucchese’s in San Antonio. They fit like gloves and were almost water proof, so heavily were they waxed and so tightly stitched. A year ago, he had paid one hundred dollars for them, a cowboy fortune.

Placing the wet boots carefully on the broad rock beside him, he stood up barefoot and walked gingerly back to his mount. In a moment, he had stripped off the plain working saddle and blanket, depositing them neatly on the rock beside the boots. He jerked his long .44 Remington rifle from its scabbard, jacked a gleaming brass cartridge into the chamber, and lay down on his back on what was left of the smooth grey rock. He cradled the long-barreled rifle across the saddle, close at hand, and closed his eyes.

Desperately tired, he did not sleep; he listened. All was silent save the chirping of small desert birds in the tree above him and intermittent scrabblings of horned toads or lizards in the sparse grass. In this relative silence, he could hear if Vasquez or any other horseman was moving within half a mile. His big horse was silent too, head down, standing fetlock deep in the, now muddy, water where he was tethered.

After about fifteen minutes, McLeod groaned to his feet. As he approached his horse, he stooped to collect a wad of sweet-smelling, hay-like, bunch grass. The tall animal swept his great head up and around, eyeing him a little suspiciously. Apparently, it was not really interested in continuing this trip just now. He greeted the horse softly and proceeded to groom him with the dry bunch grass, washing and scrubbing off the foamy residue of drying sweat. There were no sores on the animal’s back and it seemed generally fit, if tired. At last, he pitched the wad of grass onto the bank and bent to inspect legs and hooves. Again, all was well, no spasmed muscles, imbedded stones, or loose shoes. On the purchase papers, this animal was listed as a bay stallion, but McLeod would say it was just a big red horse.

He stripped and sat in the cooling water, refreshing his aching body, feeling the strain release from tired muscles. After some ten minutes, he slogged up onto the bank to lie naked on a flat, sun-warmed rock, to dry. He closed his eyes and cocked his ear, still no sound except from desert birds and scrabbling lizards; he no longer felt the tension of travel nor the weight of twenty years in the saddle. He dozed off.

Still naked, McLeod was jerked awake by the sound of something large crashing through the brush above the draw and just behind him. He slapped on his hat and jerked the .44 Colt, from its holster beside him. After a slight pause, he slipped silently across the sandy bank to the bole of the huge cottonwood, under which his no-name horse was tethered. He peered cautiously around the gnarled trunk toward the source of the noise; within minutes, he relaxed. He almost smiled.

The brown, stupid face and widespread horns of an enormous longhorn range bull appeared through the brush some ten feet above him on the steep, sloping bank of the draw. The bull was agitated, and he rolled his red eyes, showing the whites in a foolish grimace. Obviously interested in usurping the shade and cool water from McLeod and his mount, it seemed unsure of how to proceed. McLeod looked around. The scene was replete with sign of his presence; it might be time to cover his tracks.

Wearing only his soft, mouse-grey Stetson, McLeod hopped gingerly across the stony bank, back to the flat rock and proceeded to dress. He dressed quickly, but did not rush. His clothes were dry and warm from the parched air and filtered sun. He donned long johns, shirt, and jeans, carefully brushing the sand and twigs from his feet before pulling on socks and boots. He tied his large faded-blue bandanna scarf loosely around his neck and, at last, standing tall, he buckled on his chaps and strapped on his stiff gun belt; he wore the plain brown belt higher on his waist than some gunmen might think efficient.

He paused again to listen. All he heard were grunts, snorts, and pawing from the wayward bull above him and, of course; the desert birds were silent. Four or five minutes passed before he had saddled his reluctant horse, tugging the woven cinch extra tight before replacing the long Remington in its scabbard. He mounted and spurred up a steep ravine toward the belligerent range bull.

After he had negotiated the short, steep ravine, the bull was still there, on the brow of the bank, still pawing and snorting. McLeod walked his mount wide of the raging animal and finally jerked his big horse around, and charged the recalcitrant bull. The enormous animal stood stubbornly on the very edge of the low, steep bank, swaying his huge head and horns slowly back and forth, pawing the sandy turf, standing fast.

McLeod hooted wildly and swung his still-coiled lariat. Startled to action, the bull reared slightly and swung to his right, away from the raucous noise. In seconds, the bull half-slid and half-fell backward down the steep bank to the small arena he had previously coveted. The huge animal regained his legs immediately and stood roaring up the steep bank at McLeod. Its wild, red eyes rolled in rage as he wheeled and tramped and snorted, covering most of McLeod’s tracks on the bank below. McLeod reined his mount easily to the right, following Sulfur Spring Draw to the northwest at a quick, but easy pace. He grinned, broadly, as he pictured Vasquez stumbling unexpectedly upon the enraged bull.

The sun was low in the sky before he started seeking a place to hole up for the night. Although there were several small ranches and pathetic hay farms in the area, he elected to avoid human company for as long as he could. Vasquez would find his trail sooner or later, better later.

With no clear plan or interim destination in his mind, McLeod was, more or less, hoping that his tracker would guess that he would head north toward Amarillo, and the railroad. He knew that Vasquez would rather look for him in a large city than on the range. A true gunfighter, confident of his skills, Vasquez was not an ambusher. Therefore, McLeod would avoid Amarillo, Albuquerque, and any other railroad towns and head straight for Ruidoso.

That was the only clue that he really had—Ruidoso. If McLeod had actually been trying to escape and not following this only clue, Ruidoso would certainly not have been on his agenda. In fact, if Davis had not mentioned it, he would probably never have seen it in his lifetime. It looked like due west across the Staked Plains, toward the Sacramento Mountains was the best way to get to his destination.

This was probably the toughest part of some really tough country, New Mexico Territory. In 1878, there might not have been a tougher place in the world than New Mexico Territory, unless it was the Indian Territory far to the northwest or Tombstone. McLeod was headed to a place just twenty or so miles southwest of Lincoln, the site of the Lincoln County cattle war just two short years before. The primary players, Pat Garrett, Billy the Kid, and company had made the area notorious throughout the nation. Ruidoso would be bad enough.

The bone dry climate and motley collection of desperados known to have gathered in and around Lincoln County would be enough to claim a lot of anyone’s attention. If this wasn’t enough, the Mescalero Apaches also called the Sacramento Mountains home. It just might be the place to lose Vasquez for good. He doubted that Vasquez would consider Ruidoso as a likely destination for his prey.

Just at sunset, McLeod topped a rise and saw that the stream he was following led to a small grove of cottonwoods. He eased his horse slightly to the south and soon dismounted in the shelter of the little copse. In minutes, his horse was unsaddled and unbridled. He led him some five yards upstream to where the water had pooled. After watering the animal thoroughly, he served him up two full cups of oats from a half empty sack in his saddle bags. In the end, he used his lariat to tether him in a small rock-strewn clearing. In minutes, the big red horse dropped his head and began to sway slightly on his feet. McLeod patted the tired animal affectionately on the jowls, removing the empty canvas feed bag; he turned to see to his own supper.

At least you’re goin’ to sleep tonight, big fella, mumbled McLeod, walking away. Sparse pickin’s for me, though, he mumbled, to no one.

He unrolled his bed roll in an area he had carefully swept clean of rocks and unwelcome sticks. From the saddle bag, he selected an old cotton flour sack and fished around inside. He found three small cans of peaches and five of beans, a two-pound slab of bacon, and a doubled paper sack of roughly ground coffee. A tin of hardtack, a small jar of currant jelly, and a large tin spoon rounded out his selection. He left his tiny, tin frying pan, battered tin plate, and the tin can he used for brewing camp coffee, in place.

Glancing up at his horse, McLeod said, Peaches and hardtack with jelly for me, big fella’. Don’t guess I’ll chance a fire; there’s another fifty hard miles to the Pecos. We’d better be careful ’til we’re sure we’ve given ol’ Pedro the slip.

McLeod opened the peaches with the can-opener on his Barlow knife and drank the sugary juice right away. He then gulped down about five squares of hardtack and currant jelly before scooping the peach slices neatly from the can with the big spoon. A slug of water from one of the full canteens topped off his Spartan meal.

Crushing the empty peach can with his boot heel, he pitched it into a convenient hollow stump. The remaining hard tack and jelly, went back into the flour sack, after he had thoroughly rinsed off the spoon at the creek. Chores complete, he rolled a cigarette, and smoked it to a tiny stub before heaving himself into his bedroll. In seconds, he was sound asleep as his big red horse continued to sway gently back and forth.

It took another full day to reach the east bank of the Pecos. The river was in flood and he would need to swim it or find a ferry—no bridges around here, except at Roswell to the north. He reckoned that he had reached the river some forty miles south of Roswell, just north of a dry wreck of a town, inappropriately named, Artesia. Abruptly, reining south, he skirted well east of tiny Artesia. He saw no one, probably because every right-thinking individual in the territory was getting washed up for supper. After an additional hour, McLeod found a likely crossing near where the Pecos widened to form a small, almost perfectly circular, lake.

South of the lake, the river was wider than where he had first intercepted it, but significantly shallower. Sitting securely, cross-legged, on the saddle, McLeod tugged off his boots and using a piggin’ string, tied them fast to the saddle horn. He unbuckled his gun belt and rebuckled it over the saddle horn, too. In fact, McLeod found that his horse was able to walk almost halfway across before losing his footing and beginning to swim. Just as it became obvious that the horse was about to lose his footing for good because of the depth, McLeod tugged his Stetson down firmly on his head and slipped into the water, grabbing his horse’s flowing tail. He was only towed about five yards before the big horse had regained its footing. Minutes later, with McLeod aboard, the horse struggled clumsily up the shallow, rocky, western bank of the Pecos.

The sun was already behind the distant Sacramento Mountains and the western sky was orange red when McLeod decided to camp. After the crossing, McLeod had taken care to cover his tracks before turning north. He forded several more small streams and finally, intercepted Río Peñasco, an intermittent stream, flowing now. The stream would lead him generally northwest into the heart of the mountains—generally toward Ruidoso. In a few miles, he selected a campsite on a gravelly surface amid some enormous orange, weatherworn, sandstone boulders beside the stream. Without being completely aware, McLeod and his big horse had climbed some twenty-five hundred feet into the foothills of the rugged Sacramentos. Luckily, the rocks surrounding his campsite were tall enough to mask a small campfire, and McLeod completed his normal ritual of caring for horse and gear before turning to vittles.

He built a small, but efficient, Indian’s fire, using dry juniper splinters. The greasy wood popped and crackled, burning fiercely. There was little smoke, but a pungent juniper scent filled his nostrils. He didn’t stop to think that the tangy smell of juniper and bacon would be detected farther than even a larger fire could be seen."

From his saddle bags, McLeod removed frying pan, tin plate, cup, and coffee can, along with the shrinking tote sack of food. Using his razor-sharp skinning knife, he carved five fat slices of bacon from the slab and carefully rewrapped the meat in its greasy cloth. The can of coffee water was already bubbling on the little fire. Ten minutes later, McLeod was lounging against a sun-warmed rock, enjoying his first hot meal in over fifty hours. Bacon and coffee and beans never tasted better to any man before. By now, his big horse was leaning, hip-shot, against a small sycamore, eyes closed and head drooping.

McLeod cleaned up his campsite following a satisfying, if less than sumptuous supper, and retrieved his pistol, rifle, and cleaning kit. This part of the evening ritual was a pleasure to McLeod. He loved the oil-smooth actions and cool metal of both weapons. He had chosen the long rifle because it was convenient to have both guns in the same caliber, .44 Colt. He first unloaded the Colt, removed the cylinder, and swabbed the bore. Reassembling the pistol carefully, he turned the cylinder, listening carefully to the oily click of the smooth action. He reloaded the pistol with fresh cartridges, wiping each one carefully before inserting it in the cylinder. Following much the same routine with the Remington, he returned it to its oiled-leather saddle scabbard.

Tonight, he took a great deal more trouble with his camp, scooping out a shallow pit for his hip and carefully sweeping the bedsite clear of offending stones and trash. He placed his saddle at the head of the bed roll and draped his old corduroy stock-coat over the saddle where the worn sheepskin collar could serve as a pillow. At last, he reached around to fumble in one of his saddle bags resting beside his head. He reached in and removed a fat little leather-bound volume: Dickens, A Christmas Carol. He tried to read, but between the failing light from the sky and the flickering light from the fire, the words soon blurred. He dropped the book to his side. Slumping limply on his carefully prepared bed, he shut out the, now, indigo sky with his broad grey Stetson.

Chapter Two

It was well past sunset and Pete Vasquez sat comfortably, but uneasily, at a small round table in the Little Dog Saloon in Big Spring. He had started the evening with a full bottle of tequila, a small dish of salt, and a wrinkled lemon as his only company. The bottle had worked its way into being only about half full and the lemon had been reduced to a bedraggled collection of slices. The salt was gone. A handsome man, and he knew it, he eyed his reflection in the backlit window to his right.

By heritage, Vasquez was Mexican, through and through but his family had lived in north Texas for many generations in a small cattle