Sam Lamar, Texas Ranger: Judge, Jury, and Executioner

By Ron Richardson

"Sam Lamar Texas Ranger" intricately weaves the lives of three prominent families against the rugged backdrop of the late 1800s. At the heart of the narrative lies the Catlett family, led by the resilient rancher Bard Catlett. With the vast expanse of the Texas frontier as their domain, the Catletts epitomize the grit and determination of those who carve out a living from the land. Yet, their prosperity is shadowed by longstanding tensions with the Pickett brothers, Forrest and his sibling, also ranchers of notable repute. The rivalry between these two clans simmers beneath the surface, fueled by a history of land disputes and personal vendettas, threatening to erupt into a conflict that could tear the region apart.

Amidst this volatile landscape stands Sam Lamar, a retired Texas Ranger whose legendary exploits are the stuff of frontier folklore. Drawn back into duty by the call of justice, Lamar finds himself embroiled in a web of lawlessness that threatens the very fabric of society. As he confronts the resurgence of outlaw activity along the Red River, Lamar's sense of duty clashes with the ghosts of his past, driving him to confront not only the outlaws who roam the frontier but also the demons that haunt his own soul. Against the backdrop of shifting allegiances and moral ambiguity, this book emerges as a gripping tale of courage, redemption, and the enduring bonds that tie together the destinies of those who call the untamed West their home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Richardson
• Release date: Mar 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224744794

Book preview

Prologue

DECEMBER 14, 1864

Western Tennessee

Capt. Tom Sanford of the US Volunteers lay on the ridge with his binoculars to his eyes studying the modest plantation house below. Cold from the hard ground seeped through his great coat, and his breath fogged around the field glasses. Although the sun, a distorted orange oval still sat upon the horizon, lamps shone in the windows of the house.

The renegade lay beside him. They’re all inside, he said. I tell you nobody’s there but the old man and woman and some blackamoor servants. They ain’t gonna be no trouble. Let’s go get ‘em. He stirred sitting up on his heels.

Sanford swung and hit the renegade across the chest with the back of his hand. You get back down. I’ll tell you when to get up. I don’t want anybody seeing us and arming themselves before I’m ready to face them. Even though he’d known the Southern traitor since before the war, the sharp contact gave him a flush of satisfaction.

The renegade dropped back on his belly. A snicker from the Yankee troopers squatted behind him brought the heat to his face.

A quiver of anticipation stirred in his belly. Sanford motioned to the sergeant who crawled up beside him. Sergeant Milch, you take ten men and spread out behind the house. Make sure the help stay in their cabins, and don’t let anybody out the back of the house. You tell Corporal Fleischer to do the same out front and stay out of sight. He’s not to make any noise, none, you hear? I don’t want the people in the house to know we’re here. Lieutenant Metzger, he turned to the young officer behind him, you stay by me. I need for you to be able to talk to the troops if needs be.

The renegade snorted. Looks like they could’ve given you some Americans you could talk to.

These Germans are good soldiers. They do as they’re told and don’t stop to question me. I’m mighty pleased with them. He motioned, and they scooted back down from the edge of the ridge. He looked hard at the renegade, always unsure of his loyalties. You stay with me and the Lieutenant and don’t do anything unless I tell you to. You understand?

You bet, Cap’n.

Sergeant, get your men in position. And, make sure the horses are well secured.

The sergeant saluted; his heels came together with a crack. Yes, sir.

Twenty minutes later, Captain Sanford, the renegade, Lieutenant Metzger, and Corporal Fleischer rode two abreast up the live-oak-lined approach to the house’s front gallery. They had come within thirty-five or forty yards of the house when the first shots rang out. A half dozen muskets fired out of the front windows on the first and second floors. Fleischer somersaulted over the horse’s rump, a gushing hole in the hollow of his throat. Lieutenant Metzger rolled to the side; his horse twisting to the right galloped away. Metzger, his foot caught in the stirrup flopped like a rag doll. Both Sanford and the renegade wheeled and bullets jerking at their coats retreated at high speed beyond musket range. The Yankee troops hidden in the yard opened fire on the house.

Sanford dismounted and still gripping the reins, flung himself behind the broad bole of a live oak. Why are the blackamoors always firing on us? Don’t they know we’re here to set them free?

The renegade ducked in behind Sanford, bullets cracking and buzzing around his head. They know how y’all set them free. Besides, they figure y’all are invading their homes, too.

Well, you should teach them better.

We ain’t got none of them, Cap’n. My brother an’ me’re the only slaves my daddy’s got.

Sanford whistled and pumped his fist in the air. The troops began to advance on the house, drawing the decreasing fire away from Sanford and the renegade. OK, we got ‘em. Let’s go. Sanford grabbed a handful of mane and swung into the saddle. The renegade leapt onto his mount, as well, his boots searching for the stirrups and fighting for his seat, the horses wild-eyed and twisting. Gaining control, they spurred their horses toward the broad front gallery within the midst of the charging blue coats. Their horses gained the steps together, and the men vaulted from their saddles, hitting the wooden porch running and crashing through the front doors.

A white-headed couple stood in the middle of the parlor, reloading. The woman swung her musket toward the door and Sanford shot her through the chest. The old man, his mouth wide open in anguish dropped to his knees beside her. Two Negro women stepped back from the windows, dropping their muskets. A Black man lay flung across a wing chair, gripping a blood-drenched white shirt to his chest. Yankees poured into the room and the sound of the back door breaking in preceded the noise of running boots and the screams of the troops from out back.

The renegade broke for the stairs, followed by a group of troopers. A young Black boy and a very pretty light-skinned girl of sixteen or so dropped their muskets as the soldiers flooded the upstairs library. Stunned, her eyes found an older Black woman, sprawled dead in a pool of blood. The girl’s face calmed. Oh, mama, she said, and a tear coursed down both cheeks.

The renegade grabbed her arm as she knelt beside the woman, jerking her upright. Bring the boy, he ordered and dragged the stumbling girl toward the stairs. They trailed through the empty, still smoky parlor and out the open front door. The two Black women, crying, wide-eyed stood beneath the first live oak, their hands tied and ropes around their necks. Troopers threw the rope ends over sturdy branches and handed them to mounted troopers. Sergeant Milch took their prisoners and led them beneath another branch. Captain Sanford, a pleasant look on his face, held the dazed old man by the arm.

Sanford stood gripping the old man as Milch’s men prepared the last two Blacks, waiting until two more mounted troopers secured the rope ends to their saddles. The wailing from all four increased with the realization of imminent death. The four horsemen turned their eyes on the sergeant who raised his hand.

Calmly, quietly, Sanford spoke to the old man. One last chance, sir, take us to the silver, or one by one your help’s going to heaven.

The old man raised his head and straightened his back. As if awakening from a deep and confusing sleep, he turned to Sanford. What have you to gain by killing innocent servants?

Sanford motioned to Milch.

"Eins, zwei." He shouted and dropped his hand.

The two horsemen on the left spurred their mounts, jerking the two women off the ground and thankfully breaking their necks. Spasmodic kicks and they twisted lifeless.

Stop, stop… The old man screamed. What are you doing?

Sergeant, number three. Sanford’s voice remained emotionless.

"Drei!" shouted Milch, his hand coming up.

No! Stop! No more. I’ll tell you. His voice broke. I’ll tell you.

Sergeant, go with the gentleman.

They disappeared into the house, and moments later soldiers carrying wooden boxes strode onto the front gallery. From the corner of his eye he saw the renegade slip the rope from the girl’s neck and taking her elbow disappeared around the corner of the house. The boy remained standing on tiptoes. Sergeant Milch walked the old man to the live oak and fitted the noose about his neck. Now, stay here, until I need you. He chuckled at his broad humor as he joined the soldiers in the gallery.

Excitement gripped the men as unexpected treasure appeared from wooden boxes: sterling place settings, fine china and service, candelabra, and a wealth of gold jewelry. In the midst of the cacophony of excited German, Sanford hardly heard the pistol shot. He raised up from his inspection of a gold and ruby necklace, to see the renegade round the corner, buttoning his britches, and step onto the gallery.

In credulous, he asked, You shoot her?

Yeah. She knew my name. I didn’t see no reason to leave any loose ends. His eyes found the old man standing under the tree. You gonna hang him, too?

Yeah, loose ends. They laughed, and Sanford motioned to Milch. Call the wagons up, sergeant.

The sergeant shooed the soldiers away from the boxes. Replace the lids, he ordered.

The renegade stepped off the porch and walked to the old man. The man’s eyes followed him without emotion. The renegade stopped in front of him. Well, how’s ever’thing, Mr. Latimer?

Better for me now, than for you.

I don’t hardly think so. The renegade unbuttoned the old man’s coat and removed the watch and chain from his vest. Intricate engraving covered the solid gold watch with rose and green gold highlighting the hunting scenes front and back. A pair of Greek letters hung from the gold chain, anchored at the far end with a gold pen knife. The renegade pressed the crown and the lid sprang open with a musical ding. This’ll help me remember what you said, Mr. Latimer. He turned. We need these two anymore, Cap’n?

Sergeant. Sanford pointed at the tree.

"Drei, vier!" He flung down his raised arm.

Chapter 1

The Losing Hand

W.F. Womack pulled the lapels of his woolie close around his throat, then tugged his hat brim in the face of the gusts of the blue norther that threatened to topple him from his saddle. Far to the north on the other side of the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River he intermittently spied the yellow lights of the buildings at Witt, a saloon/U.S. Post Office/hotel filled the nearer, two-story building and a bit to the north stood the livery stable. Night had fallen early behind thick scudding clouds, and the temperature had dropped from cold to damn cold. Sand driven by the north wind burnt his face and rattled on the felt of his hat. He looked up again. The river lay less than a quarter-mile away. He would cross at the cattle ford there. His eyes strained into the storm. He could see only a few small pools in the sandy river bed, almost completely dry, so he could cross anywhere he wanted. Gripping his hat brim, he lifted his head enough to get another look at Witt, the sand blowing from dunes on either side of the river caused lights to flicker and disappear.

A gust blew up the steep southern bank of the river blinding him with the cold grit. He cursed rubbing at his eyes and giving the bay mare her head while he cleared his sight. He encountered a few pools stretched parallel to the river’s length. Ice laced the edges of the red brackish water, attesting to the dramatic drop in temperature. As the mare climbed the north bank, W.F. tried once again to gain his bearings under a starless sky and caught a faint flicker of lamp-light ahead. He hunched his shoulders, shivering down deep in his stomach. Thank God he’d sleep indoors tonight. He touched the mare with his spurs, and she kicked up a canter. She saw the lights, too. Within the hour, he and the mare stood in the lee of the livery. Standing in his stirrups, he beat against its closed doors rattling and squeaking in the gusting wind.

He left the mare in the warm barn, in the care of an old Mexican, and made his way to the wooden steps leading to the saloon’s double doors. He pulled open the right door, and the batwing inside swung out striking him in the chest. Cursing, he pushed back the batwing and hurried into the yellow-tinged warmth of a large room. The familiar combination of sour beer, tobacco smoke, and kerosene met his nostrils and the spicy smell of cooking chili. On his right stood a caged cubicle, housing the U.S. Post Office. A saloon took up the rest of the first floor.

A frizzy-headed bar girl looked up from the card game which occupied three roughly dressed drifters, he thought, at first, and an out-of-place patrician in a pressed dark-grey suit, white shirt, and black string tie. Knife-sharp creases dropped to his highly polished soft black boots. The other three appeared to have slept in their clothes, but they wore expensive boots and carried well-maintained Colts and leather, not drifters.

A tired smile lit the girl’s face as she strode purposefully toward him. Lamplight directly behind her emphasized the redness of her hair and cast a shadow across her narrow homely face. She opened the top three buttons of a dark blue threadbare sweater as she approached. Shuffling cards and rattling windows accompanied the sound of her leather heels striking the wooden floor. Well, welcome into the warm, cowboy. How about us having a drink?

How about us having a cup of hot coffee and a bowl of that chili I smell? He carried his bedroll and saddle bags to a table and dropped them on a chair.

Sure ‘nuff, hun. Coming right up. She turned on her heel in an almost military manner and headed toward the open kitchen door, identified by the steam rolling from it, and disappeared into the fragrant fog. He settled onto a chair and eased into it with a sigh. His sore back already loosening in the warmth from the cast iron stove an arm’s length behind him. The girl reappeared carrying a white porcelain bowl of smoking hot chili and a matching cup of black coffee. She sat them before him on the oil-cloth-covered table. Her sly smile grew as she slowly withdrew a spoon from her bosom. She twirled the spoon, light flashing off its bowl. How do they call you, cowboy?

W. F.. He reached out and snatched the flashing spoon then bent over the chili. The girl stood by the table a moment, shrugged, and walked back to the game. W.F. or Dub, his friends called him, dipped a heaping spoonful of the steaming, red-brown chili into his mouth. The chili’s temperature and pepper-hot flavor burned his mouth and throat and set coals alight in his stomach. He bit off a piece of coarse bread to soak up the heat. Somebody in this pest hole knew how to fix a good bowl of chili!

His eyes roamed the bar, noting the coal-oil lamps creaking on lamp chains swinging in the breeze that crept through the saloon’s porous single-wall construction. The lamps cast cones of light in the haze; moving shadows throughout the room. The bar, itself, a roughly constructed white pine affair, ten feet or so long stood along the back wall under a balcony on which five rooms opened. Galvanized tin bent and tacked along the edges, covering the bar’s top. At either end of the bar, nasty brass spittoons, full to the brim, sat on the floor stained by a multitude of poor shots.

Dub guessed from his attitude that the pomaded bartender also owned the place. He caught his eye and motioned for a beer. The barkeep poured a foamless mugful from a pitcher beneath the bar, and called to her. The bargirl turned from the game, stepped to the bar, and carried the beer to Dub. He grabbed her wrist as she turned away. Sit down a minute, Fay.

A smile lit her homely face. Sure ‘nuff, W.F.. She scooted a chair close and sat, her knees rubbing against his. Now, just what can I do for you, cowboy? Her fingers traced the sheep’s wool