The Ranger From The Panhandle

By John J. Law

When the gunman known only as "Willow" receives two letters, they radically alter his life. One is from the beautiful daughter of a cattle rancher, the other is from the Arizona Rangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outlaws Publishing LLC
• Release date: May 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224030033

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Cover Art by Michael Thomas

Cover design by Outlaws Publishing

Published by Outlaws Publishing

May 2024

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CHAPTER ONE

Name’s Willow. He was little more than a boy in age, but far beyond his years in range experience. He had just turned sixteen, but was tall and rangy, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and deep chest, for life on the range was not conducive to flabbiness.

Where you hail from? asked the trail boss of the herd heading northeast toward Abilene.

He was a rough looking man with a gravely voice, but Willow knew it took a tough man to take a herd of three thousand steers five hundred miles. His hair was beginning to gray around his temples and his long, drooping mustache reached well past his bottom lip. He had the build of a rider, but was carrying about twenty pounds more than he had in earlier years. He wore the typical cowhide chaps with the hair still on them. His jeans were tucked down in the top of a worn set of high-topped boots that spoke of hard work and long hours. The faded blue, cotton shirt was also tucked in, revealing a dark gun belt hanging somewhat low on his right thigh. An old, brown Stetson sat on his head like it had put down roots and grown there. It was doubtful he even took it off when he crawled into his bedroll at night.

Been drifting since I was fourteen. answered Willow, Turned sixteen a few months back while I was working for Abe Garner, east of here a ways. Worked for him almost two years.

Same old story, thought the trail boss. Parents probably killed when he was young; raised by relatives till he was old enough to be put out or run away; been drifting ever since.

This was the story of many young Westerners in this year of our Lord, 1878. It was especially true of Texans. The bloody war that had been over a little more than a decade, had orphaned many and sent even more out on their own to make a life for themselves. This was the lot of many, especially in these difficult years following the War Between the States.

I can use another man. said the trail boss, knowing that the boy had probably been doing a man’s work for some time. "My name’s Robert Duncan. I pay thirty a month and all the beans and beef you can eat. If that’s agreeable to you, throw your saddle bags in the back of the supply wagon. I’ll ride out with you and introduce you to Chuck Morgan. He’s our ramrod. He’s a hard man, but if you do your job, he’s not too bad.

Much obliged. said Willow, as he turned his buckskin stallion toward the back of the supply wagon. He knew that thirty a month was the going rate for trail drivers, and he appreciated being thought of as able to do the work of a grown man. Many of the cowboys he had worked with were just that - boys. Most were still in their teens. They did, however, do a man’s work for a man’s pay. There wasn’t much time for childhood in the Lone Star state in those wild and difficult days, surely not for an orphan like Willow.

By the time he had stowed his saddle bags in the back of the wagon, Duncan was mounted on a clean-limbed black and ready to go. The smell coming from the pots hanging over the campfire made Willow’s mouth water. He had run out of food four days ago, and all he’d had to eat since then were two rabbits he’d killed and cooked with no salt.

Noticing the hungry glance the boy threw in the direction of the cookfire, Duncan said, It’s almost noon, so you won’t have time to do more than say hello before you’ll be getting some chow.

It was common practice on a cattle drive to eat two hot meals a day. Breakfast was eaten before daylight and supper was usually after dark. The cook sent somebody around with sandwiches when they made their noon halt to rest the cattle and let them graze a little.

I’m in no hurry. said Willow, not wanting to let the trail boss know he was hungry, then regretted it, for he knew the truth had shown on his face. A lie, no matter how small or insignificant, wasn’t a good way to start a new job. It’s only been about three days since I ate last. he said lightly, I’m good for another week or so.

Well, said the range boss with a genial smile, this is a pretty soft outfit. We’ll see if we can get you in the habit of eating a couple of times a day.

That’ll be a welcome change. said Willow, and he knew he was going to like his new boss.

The cattle were strung out for several hundred yards. On the typical drive, one man rode point, two or three rode ‘flank’ on each side, depending on the size of the herd, and two rode drag in the rear, keeping the stragglers from falling too far behind. There were usually a few men out hazing rebellious steers back into the herd and one or two men with the remuda. Drovers usually went thru three or four horses a day, so keeping a good remuda of horses was essential to a successful drive.

When they rode up to the ramrod, Willow didn’t have to be told which he was. He sat his horse, casting an appraising glance at the new rider. The look made him think of a rattler about to strike.

Morgan was younger than Duncan by several years, and about that much older than Willow. Judging by the looks of him, the boy felt sure he was the kind of fellow who always had something to prove. He was not a big man, for no drover was. He was not even a tall man, nor did he appear to be a tough man. He just seemed to be a mean man.

Been raiding the school house again Boss? Willow had prepared himself for such a slur, so he didn’t flinch or say a word. He let his eyes speak for him, and what they said was enough to make the ramrod decide he’d said enough.

Ignoring the ramrod’s jab, the trail boss said, Another drover for you Morgan. Goes by the name of Willow. Put him to work.

With that, the boss turned his horse and rode back toward camp, leaving the new man with the ramrod. It was evident he didn’t appreciate the cutting slur any more than Willow did.

Where you been working? asked Morgan, in a not-so-friendly tone.

Worked the last couple of years for Abe Garner, east of here a ways. replied Willow, and tried to make his tone as neutral as possible. After all, he didn’t want to go back to eating unsalted rabbit again too soon.

Well, said the ramrod, we expect everybody to do their part out here, and a new man always starts out riding drag. with a slight pointing of his chin toward the rear of the herd, he said, Go relieve Lesley.

Giving no answer, Willow turned the buckskin in the direction indicated and touched him gently with his spurs, sending the well-trained animal into a long, easy lope.

He’d known men like Morgan before. They were usually difficult the first day or so, then eased up a little, feeling they’d proved whatever it was they had to prove, at least till the next new man came along.

As he made his way toward the rear of the herd, Willow felt the swing of the big, black 45 caliber Colt that hung low on his right thigh. He hoped he’d never have to use it against a man, but knew the chances of that were slim. For that reason, he’d practiced with it a couple of hours every day since buying it over two years before. From the time he’d gone to work for Abe Garner at the age of fourteen, he’d made it a priority to dedicate at least two hours a day to drawing the big gun and pointing it at a target, which was usually a rock or tree limb about waste high. Abe had given him a few pointers early on, and one of them was that he didn’t have to fire the gun every time he drew it.

Draw it and point it. the old rancher would say, Draw it and point it. Let it become part of your arm. Point it like you’d point a finger. It’ll be there when you need it. Pointing it right is more important than drawing it fast. Many men are in their graves today who had a fast draw but a poor aim. Sure, they got off the first shot, but that didn’t help at all when they missed.

As he rounded the end of the herd and headed toward one of the men riding drag, Willow thought back over his short life. For a young man his age, he had a long history, and he realized that it wasn’t a very pleasant one.

His parents had been killed by a Comanche raiding party while traveling west on a wagon train. He and his two brothers, Claymore and Matthew, had been taken in and raised by three different families who survived the massacre. Since he was only three years old when it happened, the Rogers family was the only family he could remember. After they took him in, they’d had five children of their own - all girls.

Willow had grown up on a small homestead in the Texas Panhandle, where his step father had done the best he could, but the soil was poor and the yield was sparse. Life had been tough for all of them, but especially for the only boy in a family of six children. It had seemed that the more offspring they had of their own, the less his step parents wanted him around.

They had taken him in as an orphaned baby. They’d fed him, clothed him, taught him to read and write. They’d taught him about God and His Son, Jesus, as well as the benefits of regular prayer and Bible reading. He owed them a lot for all that, but he’d also worked six days a week almost since he could remember. He’d chopped wood, cut and hauled hay, worked the cattle with his step father, and in the evenings, had mended and sharpened tools, while his step mother taught him his lessons. He figured the bill had been paid in full. So, on his fourteenth birthday, he saddled the buckskin stallion he had caught and trained himself, and rode away without looking back.

Since leaving home, his life had consisted of working cattle and practicing, ever practicing with the big Colt that had become part of him.

Crossing behind the rear of the herd, he espied a rider coming toward him with his bandana covering the lower half of his face to keep as much dust out of his mouth and nose as possible.

I’m looking for Lesley. called Willow above the incessant bellowing of the herd. Come to relieve him. Here he stopped and tied his own bandana in the same manner.

I’m Lesley. said the cowboy with a nod, Just sign on?

That’s right. agreed Willow. Here was the kind of youth he’d learned to associate with the term, cowboy. He was a tow-headed fellow of about Willow’s age and size, though not quite as heavily built. Pulling down his bandana, he revealed what appeared to be a ready smile that spoke of a nature to match. His face was either clean shaven or, as many his age, he hadn’t begun to grow a beard yet. Willow had been shaving over a year, but was now letting his mustache grow, hoping it would make him look a little older.

What handle you go by? asked Lesley, turning sideways in the saddle and extending a welcoming hand.

Willow’s the name.

Great to have you with us. said Lesley, You don’t look like this is your first cattle drive.

No. he replied genially, I’ve been working cattle since I can remember. Been on two other drives.

That’s good. said Lesley, I’ve worked cattle a while, but this is my first drive. I think it’s the first for most of us. Morgan might be one up on us, I’m not sure. He wants everybody to believe he knows what he’d doing, but I don’t think he does. Seems like he takes it one day at a time, one event at a time.

He’ll learn. replied Willow.

Yeah, said Lesley, If he lives long enough. He doesn’t mind prodding people though, especially the ones he doesn’t think’ll prod back.

There seemed to be a question in this, as well as a warning. Willow had seen the youth casually look him over as he rode up. He’d noted the big Colt on his hip and probably wondered if he could use it. Willow, however, was not much on talking, and even slower to talk about himself. Therefore, he ignored the implied question.

Mr. Duncan seems like a good enough fellow. he observed instead.

Salt of the earth! volunteered Lesley, That’s what that man is.

I’m sure he could see that I was up against it. said Willow humbly, He didn’t say anything about it though, just hired me.

That’s the way he is. said Lesley, You’ll get along fine with him and the rest of the boys. Just don’t expect much out of Morgan. That way you won’t be disappointed. Pulling his bandana back in place, he waved and called, See you at chow.

This day was exceptionally hot and the cattle were tired and thirsty when they came up on the shallow water hole where Willow had met the trail boss earlier. The cook and his helper, called a ‘waddie’, who drove the supply wagon, were busily cutting up several large loaves of bread they had baked the evening before for this purpose.

Three of the thirsty steers didn’t stop, but wading out too far, soon found themselves bogged down in the mud. When Morgan got there and took note of the situation, he began to furiously curse the drovers who stood by, not knowing what to do.

When Willow rode up, he took a moment to survey the chaotic scene before easing his horse into the water. Slowly swirling his lariat over his head, he called softly to the stranded cattle. One at a time, he daubed his rope over their heads and gently encouraged the frightened beast to pull themselves free. When he got his rope off the last one, Morgan rode over to him and began to curse him for driving the cattle too hard from the rear and causing the problem.

"It was your fault, boy! cried the ramrod angrily, You belong back on the farm helping your mamma milk cows!"

The anger rose swiftly in Willow, for he was not used to being cursed or ridiculed, and besides, it was he who had gotten the steers out of the bog.