The Rise of a Warrior

  Messina frowned. “You could not change his mind?”

  Talbot shook his head. “No. The only thing that could change his mind was a bullet. And that might be the only good news. Apparently it did. There was a lot of shootin’, so I got out of there.

  “My men didn’t follow me, and my brother didn’t follow me so I figure they were killed. Probably it was Rangers. With all the troops either gone on patrol or locked up, that’s all I can figure.

  “But like I said, them bein’ killed might be the good news. The guns, the repeaters, they’ll still be there. With the troops still away, we might even be able to ride back there right now and take them. We could go right now, Paco! Just cut me loose. It’s only about five hours if we ride hard.”

  Messina grinned again. “You know, that would not have been a bad idea if I had heard it when you first got here. We could have hit them before daylight. The element of surprise would be on our side. But now....”

  He shook his head. “No, señor Talbot, even such a hopeful and optimistic man as yourself cannot possibly trust that the troops will be gone long enough. Plus, even if we got away with the weapons, the Comanches as well as the army would be after us. That is not a good combination if you’ve grown used to breathing and want to continue.”

  Talbot was getting desperate. “Okay, okay. That’s right. Maybe I wasn’t thinking. It ain’t easy to think straight when you’re staked to the ground. But look, we can still get someone else on the inside and take ‘em later.”

  Messina nodded. “Now that one is a possibility. Maybe so... maybe so. In the meantime, it is a shorter ride to the east to repair any damage done to our relationship with our red brothers, eh? We can let Red Hawk know there are no hard feelings. Perhaps we can even team up with the Comanche to take the weapons.”

  Messina seemed to be thinking. He reached down and patted Talbot on the cheek. “In actuality, you were right, my friend. This is very valuable information. Except that today is pretty much the same as yesterday.”

  “What?”

  Messina shrugged. “Yesterday the repeating guns were brand new and in the fort, were they not? And today the repeating guns are brand new and in the fort. So nothing has changed really.

  “The only real difference is that now I have an opportunity I did not have before: to repair a relationship with the Comanche war chief Red Hawk.” He shrugged. “Then again, I have only your word to believe that relationship needs to be repaired.

  “Still you are right about one thing. If I would have had this information some hours ago, I might not have acted on it, but at least I would have been informed, eh? At least I would have had the choice to act on it or not.”

  “Yes. Yes. And that was my point. I tried to explain to the guard that—”

  Messina held up the revolver, his fingers splayed. “Wait.” Still crouched down, he pivoted on the ball of his left foot and looked around, gesturing toward his men with his revolver. “Who was on guard early this morning? Who brought this man in?”

  Nobody said anything.

  Messina grinned and gestured with the gun again. “Come on, come on, I need to know. Am I going to shoot my own men? Now tell me, who defended me so thoroughly last night, ensuring that I was able to get my rest?”

  One of the men stepped forward. “It was I, patrón. I brought him in.”

  Messina nodded, the grin still in place. “Ah, bueno, bueno. And did he give the signal like he says?”

  “Oh sí, mi jefe, pero pensé que—”

  The grin disappeared from Messina’s face. He cocked his revolver and fired. “You thought?”

  The man jerked backward, arms flailing, and fell, clawing at the point where the bullet had entered his chest. He struggled for a moment, digging the heels of his boots into the ground in an attempt to flee, then lay still.

  Messina stood and looked at him for a moment. “No, I don’t think you thought, mi amigo. I don’t think you thought at all.”

  He turned around again, crouched and looked at Talbot. “Now that, you see, that is what he gets for not allowing you through. Ah, and this,” he said and held up the stick.

  He looked at the glowing end of it for a moment, turning it in his hand. “This is what you get for allowing your idiot brother to change the plan and for not bringing me the news sooner.”

  He pressed the hot end of the stick against Talbot’s forehead just above his right eyebrow.

  Smoke rose and the stench of seared flesh filled the air. A few of Messina’s men backed away.

  Talbot gritted his teeth and tried to keep himself from passing out. Sweat broke out in beads over his forehead, cheeks and throat. The only sounds were the sizzling of the flesh at the end of the stick and Talbot’s quick inhalations and exhalations as he sucked air through his teeth.

  “Ah, but it is lucky for you that I would not have acted on the information. If the information were of greater importance, and if you had denied me the ability to make a decision because of something so silly and inconsequential as an inexperienced guard,” and he shrugged, “eh, I would kill you now.”

  Messina grinned, then leaned forward and dragged the hot end of the stick slowly down over Talbot’s closed right eye and across his cheek to his jawline.

  Talbot continued to breathe hard through his teeth, determined not to pass out. His left eye remained clear. He focused on Messina with all the hatred he could muster.

  Quietly, so nobody else could hear, Messina said, “You are one tough hombre, señor Talbot, and stubborn. It almost makes me wish we could be friends, you and I.”

  Talbot, glared at him. “When I see you again, I will kill you.”

  Messina looked at him for a moment, his revolver still in his right hand. Still quietly, he said, “Yes, I think you might try. And perhaps you deserve that chance.” Abruptly he stood and holstered his revolver, then dropped the stick on Talbot’s chest.

  He took a step back, then canted his head a bit and studied Talbot’s face. He grinned. Louder than before, he said, “You know, from the right angle, on that side of your face now you look like una rana, eh? In your language, that is a frog. I might have done you a favor, hombre. Now perhaps you have a nickname.”

  He turned on his heel and laughed as he walked away. “Vaminos, mis amigos! Cabalgamos! We ride!”

  As he walked toward his horse, he called to one of his lieutenants. “Ramón.”

  The man raced up alongside him. “Sí, mi patrón?”

  “Your horse is fast, sí?”

  “Sí, mi patrón.”

  “And do you know where is the camp of Red Hawk?”

  “The Comanche, mi patrón?”

  Messina nodded. “Sí sí.”

  “Sí, mi patrón.”

  “Bueno. Ride there, fast. Stay to the north bank of Wolf Creek and go east. No delays.

  “When you get there, speak only to Red Hawk himself. Tell him I am coming later this morning and that he and I have much to discuss. Tell him it is about repeating rifles and deception. Nothing more.

  “Sí, mi patrón.”

  As the man turned away, Messina slapped him on the back. “Bueno. Vaya!”

  * * *

  The captain was just coming out of the office when Connolly and Stilson came riding up from their training session with Wes and Mac.

  Connolly said, “Captain, anything goin’ on?”

  The captain shook his head. “So how’d they do?”

  Connolly nodded. “Wes did well. Seems like he’s a natural at ridin’ an’ shootin’. Hit everything he aimed at. In fact, I put him through it a few extra times just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

  Stilson said, “Mac was about the same once he realized ‘good enough’ ain’t good enough.” He laughed. “He didn’t know how to use the carbine at a gallop either, but he picked it up pretty quick.”

  Connolly said, “I talked with Wes a little more about goin’ off on his own like that too. I think he understands.”

&n
bsp; The captain nodded and gestured toward the Amarillo Inn. “Shall we?”

  *

  At the livery stable, Wes and Mac dismounted, hung the saddles over the walls of the stalls, then took care of their horses. Wes poked around and found Charley an extra helping of oats. He brought some for Mac’s horse too.

  He looked at Mac. “Your horse ain’t got a name, does he?”

  Mac shook his head, patted the horse’s neck. “Naw.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pappy said one time you hadn’t never ought’a name somethin’ you might have to eat someday.”

  Wes looked at him, then wrinkled his face up in disgust and turned away. “Well, I reckon I’m safe namin’ ol’ Charley. We ever get in that much of a tight, we’ll just eat your horse.”

  As they exited the stable, Mac said, “You ain’t ever gettin’ so much as a bite outta my horse, Wes Crowley.”

  Afterward, as they walked up the street toward the Amarillo Inn, Mac said, “Looked like you an’ Corporal Connolly were havin’ a pretty serious talk about somethin’.”

  Wes nodded. “More stuff about the other night.” He shook his head and grinned. “Man, I gotta say, between yesterday with the captain an’ then this mornin’ with everybody an’ then out there on the range with Corporal Connolly, that’s the most talkin’ I’ve done in a long time.”

  As they neared the Inn, they stepped up on the boardwalk. Mac grinned and shook his head. “You’ve got a weak memory, my friend.”

  Wes grinned. “Well, I mean serious talkin’.” He opened the door to the Inn, then stepped aside, holding it for Mac.

  As Mac stepped through, he said, “There they are,” and gestured with his chin toward a back table.

  Captain Flowers saw them at about the same time and waved, inviting them over.

  When they were seated and everyone had a beer, the captain looked at the new men. “Corporal Connolly says it went well out there today. I’m glad to hear it. That doesn’t mean your training’s over though. Most of that will come on the job.

  “Of course, the kind of job we do means there will be little or no room for error. Many times, you’ll have to adapt to a very serious situation as it’s happening.

  “For that reason more than any other, the most important thing I can tell you is that you have to follow orders. If one of the corporals or even one of the more experienced Rangers tells you to do something, do it without question. If you wonder why he gave the order, you can question it later when things calm down. That’s part of training too.”

  He stopped, looked about the table, then picked up his glass. “Now, if you’ll indulge me, gentlemen, it’s been a tumultuous few weeks. We suffered the loss of two damned fine Rangers in Harold Reeves and Ricky Mimbres.” He raised his glass and watched as the others raised theirs. “To Rangers Reeves and Mimbres.”

  The others repeated the toast and then followed the captain’s lead, only sipping from their glasses.

  The captain said, “On the other hand, in defeating Iron Bear and his bunch, you rode one of the more dangerous renegade Comanches in all of Texas to ground.” He raised his glass again. “To vanquished foes.”

  “Vanquished foes,” they all repeated, then sipped from their glasses again.

  The captain wasn’t finished. “We also acquired three new Rangers in Stanton, Crowley and McFadden. And finally, gentlemen, we witnessed the rise of what I suspect will become a major new adversary.”

  The captain paused for a moment, then said quietly, “I have to tell you, it all makes me wish I was young enough to start over.” Then, his voice a bit louder, he said, “Gentlemen, if you will do me the honor of joining me in a final toast,” and he raised his glass. “To the Texas Rangers, old friends and new.”

  Everyone clinked glasses and mugs. “The Rangers!”

  *

  The next morning Mac woke up in a foul mood.

  Wes had admitted to him just two nights ago over supper about following those Comanches. Then he had repeated the whole story again for the Rangers yesterday morning. Mac hadn’t had time to think about it afterward since they were on the range all day.

  Then last night in a toast the captain had talked about Iron Bear and then Four Crows almost as if they were heroes.

  Well, of course they were heroes. Or at least anti-heroes.

  After all, what’s a hero without a prime antagonist?

  And that had reminded him yet again of the first hero and the first heroic act he had ever seen, the old Comanche who had walked into Watson when Mac was only six years old.

  The cowboy’s dishonorable actions back then contrasted with the honorable actions of the old Comanche who continued to stride proudly down the center of the street. That memory and the cowboy’s dishonor and the old Comanche’s honor all mixed in with what Wes had told Mac about his late night maneuver against the Comanche raiding party.

  In bed that night, as he was going to sleep, Mac mumbled, “Only Wes would attempt to raid a Comanche raiding party.”

  The thought made him smile, but it also jumbled together with the other thoughts in his mind and he drifted off into a dream. The dream had been pervasive, visiting him three times during the night, the last time just before he woke up.

  Each time the dream came, there was a light mist rising off Coldwater Creek. Mac spotted Wes through the mist. He was getting up and sneaking out of camp.

  Each time, Mac rose from his lookout spot near the boulder on the rise across the stream and waved his arms high over his head as he yelled, “Wes! Hey, Wes!”

  Wes seemed neither to see nor hear him.

  Each time, Mac had thrown caution to the winds, racing down the hill through the brush and splashing into the creek, yelling at the top of his lungs for Wes to wait.

  But Wes had ridden off as if trapped in a fate he couldn’t control.

  The rest of the dream had repeated as well, despite Mac’s near-conscious attempts to change it.

  Finally across Coldwater Creek, his feet squishing uncomfortably in his soaked boots, Mac had splashed up onto the bank. He had stumbled clumsily several more yards, then clambered up onto the back of his horse, not bothering to take the time even to saddle him first. Then he had leaned forward over his horse’s neck and ridden hard after his friend.

  In the dream, Wes had continued to walk Charley for a good distance, and then broke into an easy canter. He was following dark, dim shapes that seemed always just about to drop over the horizon.

  Mac repeatedly dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, urging him to gallop faster, harder, yet always Wes remained just beyond the range of Mac’s urgent warnings.

  Finally, after several hours of hard, bone-jarring riding, Mac topped out over a low rise and caught up with his friend.

  Wes was trussed up on a rail fence, his elbows bent over the top rail, his hands pulled back through and tied with a strip of rawhide across his belly. Sweat was pouring in streams down his sides and darkening his pants where it soaked into the waistband. He was scalped and badly beaten, his shirt was ripped off and someone had split him open.

  In the distance, vague figures in a narrow line were passing one by one over the horizon. Only one remained motionless atop his horse. He was off to one side, and Mac could see him plainly.

  He was thin, short, like a twelve or thirteen year old boy.

  He was Comanche, and he was smiling, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Mac tore his gaze from the Comanche, leapt from his horse and yelled, “Wes! Oh my god, Wes!” He raced toward his friend, but something in the dirt caused him to slide to a stop, his eyes wide.

  He looked again.

  It was rounded, red, coated with dust.

  It was beating.

  Unable to breathe, unable to think, he realized what it was but didn’t want to know.

  He looked at Wes again.

  There was a gaping hole in the center of his friend’s chest.

  He looked aga
in at the object on the ground. It was a heart. It was Wes’ heart.

  Beneath a heavy layer of dust, dirt and grit, it was contracting, relaxing, contracting.

  His mouth locked open, Mac fell to his knees, not wanting to touch the thing but needing to put it back where it belonged.

  He looked up. “Wes, I don’t know what to do! I don’t know how!”

  His friend remained motionless, hanging there on the fence.

  But Wes was still alive, wasn’t he? If Mac could only bring himself to pick the thing up. If he could only make himself put Wes’ heart back in his chest, then maybe—

  He looked again at his friend, still hanging limp on the fence. “Wes?” Helplessness raged over him. He rocked his head back and again he yelled, “Wes!”

  And Wes, finally able to hear his friend, dragged his chin up from his chest. “Hey, Mac.” He nodded with his chin toward the dusty muscle lying on the ground. “I see what you got there. It’s all right. You can’t put it back, Mac. There ain’t nothin’ you can do.” He shook his head and grinned that stupid half-grin. “Damn, Mac, I reckon— I reckon maybe I should’a waited.”

  Then his head flopped forward and he was gone.

  Laughter came from a point near the horizon.

  Mac jerked awake, covered with sweat, his legs tangled in his blanket. “He belonged, you sorry bastard! He belonged!”

  *

  Over breakfast, determined to pull himself from his bad mood, Mac sipped his coffee, then set his cup on the table. He looked across the table and grinned, honestly glad to see his friend. “So what you reckon we’ll do today?”

  Wes wasn’t strung up to a rail fence.

  He wasn’t sweaty and bloody and beaten.

  He was sitting in a chair across the table from Mac in the restaurant section of the Amarillo Inn.

  And in true Wes fashion, he wasn’t bothered by anything. He was holding the tip of his fork against the last piece of steak on his plate.

  He shrugged as he worked his knife back and forth through the tines as he cut the piece of steak into two smaller pieces. “Finish our breakfast, first.” He put his knife down, took a bite of the steak, and then gestured toward his plate with his fork. “It’s a fine breakfast, ain’t it? First rate. Eggs, taters, st—”

  Mac grinned despite himself. “I swear you always focus on the least important things, Crowley.”

  “Well, no, now that ain’t right.” Wes grinned. He gestured toward Mac with his knife. “Thing is, you an’ me just differ on our definition of what’s important. That’s the whole deal right there. It’s the little things that make a difference in life.”