Follow the Setting Sun: More Adventures with the Rangers in Texas, Mexico, and Beyond (A Novel)

By Robert J. Eells

Follow is a sequel to Tex Med and continues the saga of a medical student, John McFarland, who meets opportunities and challenges in Texas and elsewhere in the months prior to Americas entry into the Great War. His girlfriend, Heather, returns as well as several characters from the first novel. Introduced here are many new fictional characters, including Johns cousin, Ted, new Rangers, Native Americans, oil field roustabouts, and bad guys aplenty. New real historical figures are presented who interact with the fictional ones in interesting ways, such as Aimee Semple McPherson, Pancho Villa, Jim Thorpe, D.W. Griffith, and Wyatt Earp. Enjoy. And theres more to come, for a trilogy is planned to tie everything together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504926942

Robert J. Eells

In addition to this third volume of the Tex Med trilogy, Robert J. Eells has authored four other books, including two political biographies and two volumes of short stories about his father’s sixty-year medical practice in a small town in New York State. He has also written several articles and numerous book reviews about contemporary political and cultural life in America. He earned a PhD in American Studies from the University of New Mexico in 1976. He has taught at four colleges and universities and is a retired Professor of History and Political Science from Spring Arbor University in Michigan. He and his family live in Jackson, Michigan.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 Robert J. Eells. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/05/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2695-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-2694-2 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Prodigal Son

Chapter 2

Star Gazing

Chapter 3

Prodigal Daughter?

Chapter 4

Los Indios And Beyond

Chapter 5

Confinement

Chapter 6

Roustabouting

Chapter 7

Medicine, Movies And Ministry

Chapter 8

Emergencies

Chapter 9

Confrontation

Chapter 10

Decisions

Chapter 11

Rowdies

Chapter 12

Border Wars

Chapter 13

Texas Politics

Chapter 14

Mexican Politics

Chapter 15

Tony And The Comanches

Chapter 16

The Cave

Chapter 17

The Escape

Chapter 18

California Calling

Chapter 19

Hollywood

Chapter 20

Mr. Earp And Mr. Thorpe

Chapter 21

On Location

Chapter 22

A Final Fight, A Final Game

About the Author

To the Memory of My Parents,

Walter and Katherine Eells and My Siblings,

Eleanor Gray and Kenneth Eells

Acknowledgments

Thanks to all those who urged me to write a sequel to Tex Med.

Your encouragement helped make the decision to continue to expand my fictional story of a young medical student and his adventures in Texas and elsewhere nearly a century ago.

Special thanks to Cheryl Gillette for her typing and to the following for their proofing and editing: Carol Morrisey, Gwen Hersha, and Merrilee Skrocki. The wonderful art work on the covers was created by Bethany Anderson. They will be proudly displayed on one of my walls at home.

Finally, thanks again to my wife, Janice, for her support during the entire writing and editing process. Creativity was easy with her standing behind me all these months.

Here are a few of the historical figures who appear in this novel:

Chapter 1

PRODIGAL SON

T he sudden noise resembled a clap of thunder or the explosive concussion of cannon fire. Under normal circumstances it would have aroused someone from a deep slumber, even in the dead of night. But the young man on the cot had spent most of the evening drinking and gambling and was slow to respond. Maybe it wasn’t just the alcohol that had produced such a contented sleep; he had finally won a big hand at the poker table following work in the oil field and later collapsed onto the cot with a silly smile on his face. Neither the west Texas heat, the flies hovering over half-eaten food, or the scampering mice enjoying a late Friday night snack in his cramped one-room apartment had made much of an impact on him.

The sound had come from the violent thrust of a size-fourteen work boot against his front door, made necessary because he had somehow managed to lock the door despite his impaired state. The smile faded when he was unceremoniously dumped on the floor and kicked in his side by the same enormous boot. First his face kissed the floor, then he felt a heavy blow to his lower back. Within seconds, a painful reality was beginning to return. He rolled over, opened his eyes, and tried to focus on the imposing sight hovering over him. The light of a full moon breaking in from a lone window sufficed to illuminate the specter of a giant staring down at him. The face was partly hidden behind a bandana, but the eyes were chilling, menacing – not an ounce of kindness behind them.

Before the victim could ask his first question, the giant bent down, put a heavy knee on his chest and growled, Where is it, Ted? Where’s the money?

What are you talkin’ ’bout? Ted gasped. What money?

Don’t play me for a fool, Ted. You know exactly what money I’m talkin’ ’bout. From last night’s poker game. Close to ’bout $250, rumor has it.

Ted was now fully awake with a churning stomach and a foul taste in his mouth. Despite the trauma he was experiencing, however, he felt a strange, momentary surge of bravado. Even a giant could be defeated; all you needed was leverage and strength. The latter he possessed in abundance, because four months of strenuous manual labor on the new Midland oil derricks had added fifteen to twenty pounds to his frame, most of it pure upper body muscle. Leverage would come by grabbing the intruder’s vest and yanking it to the side.

Wait! Ted called out weakly, feigning alarm. I’ll tell ya where it is, he whined as he inched out a hand pretending to ward off any blows heading his way. The hand was almost to the vest when he froze; the assailant had a partner. And the smaller second man was holding a pistol close to his right leg. That changed everything. Despite his on-going struggle with demon rum, he knew his life was worth more than $250, much more.

Further encouragement to cooperate arrived in the form of a vicious backhand slap. Ted realized he was out of options. With the taste of blood in his mouth he pointed back over his head and said, It’s on the shelf above the sink, buried in the coffee can. It’s all there.

Good answer, Mr. Townley. You just spared yourself further pain and suffering. The giant ordered the second man to seize the can and find the money. It took only a few seconds to pour out the contents and retrieve the bills and silver dollars. Adding insult to injury, the second man then swept his hand across the counter, pushing all the liberated coffee grounds onto the dirty floor. Ted sighed and closed his eyes, remembering how tasty that imported Mexican coffee had been.

You’re a dead man if you report this to the sheriff or the Rangers, Ted, hissed the man-in-charge as he rose from Ted’s chest. Besides, he laughed, we can make better use of this money than you. Then they both laughed as they turned to depart through the new hole in the wall. On their way out, the leader used his boot one more time, upending Ted’s small kitchen table and all its contents: plates, utensils, a couple newspapers, and his letters from home.

He watched the envelopes and handwritten notes on pretty stationary floating down, joining coffee grounds and nasty splinters from the former wooden door. Of all the debris, though, his main concern was the letters; his mom and sister had been writing all summer with exciting, troubling, and encouraging news from Los Indios. All of them had been read – but rarely answered – at least twice. Suddenly, he was determined to do it again. So, he went to the stove to reheat yesterday’s coffee, sat down on his only chair – letters in his lap – and waited for the dawn of the new day. He wouldn’t wait that long to mull over his response to the events which had just transpired in his humble abode.

He dozed off several times, jerking awake periodically, each time his anger and embarrassment increasing, as he began to plot revenge against the robbers. When his head snapped back for the last time, he jumped right out of the chair, shouting, You bastards! I know who you are! Of course, that’s how you knew my name.

His unconscious mind had been parading faces and voices before him during his fitful sleep, and it was the lone voice that sealed it. The leader had spoken with a strong Irish accent. Several Irishmen, he remembered, had shown up during the summer looking for work. Most were Irish-Americans with fading brogues, but two in particular sounded like they had just arrived on the docks in Boston. Sean and Conor, it has to be you, he repeated several times as he paced back and forth across the cluttered floor. Ouch. He had forgotten something important, and he was now paying the price, cursing in pain and hopping around on one foot, staring at a large splinter protruding from the big toe of his foot. Just another reason to hunt them down, he thought, as he carefully made his way to the safety of the chair. Big Sean, I’m coming for you and your sidekick, he muttered as he plucked out the splinter.

A few moments later, the rising sun gave him a better view of everything; he examined his bruised lower back, wrapped the area with a torn sheet, and somehow managed to reheat and swallow the dregs from the coffee pot. He dressed quickly, hoping to arrive at his favorite diner before the big morning rush of oil workers and cowboys. As he headed for his new exit, he noticed the letters that had fallen on the floor and recalled his intention to reread them. Taking out his pocket watch, he judged there was a bit of time. Maybe a couple could be perused. Where to start?

He quickly determined to reread one each from his mom and from his sister, Diane. Two were selected at random, and the process began.

Like mother, like daughter – more than a cliché as over and over again their thoughts speared his heart. Each three-page letter had the same format: page one asked if he was happy, healthy, and safe; number two inquired – more forcefully from his mom – about his spiritual life (with a reminder not to forget Sunday church services); and the third implored him to return home for a visit – both for their own pleasure in his company and to hang out with his cousin John. Diane listed some of John’s amazing adventures at the clinic and with the Rangers. She did this with each letter, but he had to admit being more than a little envious and jealous about John’s hero status with his sister. Further, they always mentioned a beautiful redhead named Heather to whom they had grown so close and who had apparently stolen John’s heart. He still couldn’t fully envision his academic cousin joining the Rangers as they invaded Mexico to rescue his sister and girlfriend from those bandits. Heather, nonetheless, was a topic that really interested him. She sounded almost too good to be true. Suddenly, guilt washed over him as he thought about the character and lifestyle of his summer girlfriend, actually, girlfriends. His family would be so disappointed. As he gently placed the letters on the floor, he noticed what appeared to be a watermark. Probably a teardrop, he concluded, now more ashamed and guilt-ridden than ever.

Walking to the diner, he made the decision to contact his family with a partial solution to his summer-long absence. He barely listened to the bantering back and forth at the breakfast table filled with coworkers. He had decided not to tell them immediately about the robbery, but was instead concentrating on the message to be sent back home. He simply nodded and grunted at any attempt to pull him into the conversation.

After everyone had piled into the truck, which had become the shuttle to work for several grumpy and sleepy men, Ted yelled out to the driver, Pull over past the bank. I need to wire a message home at the Wells Fargo office next door.

With an agitated voice, the driver responded, Ain’t got time, Ted, late already.

When it seemed the truck wouldn’t stop, Ted, occupying the shotgun seat, opened the door ready to jump out.

Hell, Ted, y’all want to break a leg or somethin’? But he slammed on the brake and pulled over to the sidewalk. One minute, then I’m gone, he warned.

Ted rushed in and narrated the message to the telegraph operator – the one he had formulated between breakfast gulps: Townley family: can’t make it back till summer work finished. Sorry. Suggest John visit here. Will find a place for him to stay. Have missed seeing him. Can Heather come too? Love, Ted.

He grinned as he scanned the words and saw the reference to Heather. It suddenly occurred to him that Heather would have to have a separate lodging. It probably wouldn’t happen anyway, but he kept thinking about the possibility as he sprinted back to the truck, catching up and leaping aboard just as it was pulling away.

Y’all are takin’ the blame for this if we’re late, spat the driver. Might be the last straw for you with the boss, college boy. Could be goin’ home a mite early.

So true. He’d been given a last chance more than once by his hard-driving boss, Phil Archer, one of the many wildcatters desperate to strike it rich in west Texas. In a panic he started thinking about what he’d say if they didn’t arrive on time.

Ten minutes later the truck screeched to a halt in front of the main office and everyone spilled out, scattering in all directions. One good sign: no boss fuming with arms crossed. One bad sign: high decibel shouting from inside the office. Then the door was flung open and Archer stepped out, yelling Where all you bums goin’? Get in here now!

They all shuffled in with a few mumbling something about Ted under their breath. Slim Jordon, the driver, started to open his mouth but was silenced by a glare and raised hand from Archer.

Through gritted teeth, Archer began, Ya know I need all ten hours every day from each of you. Not nine, not eight. All ten. Understand? Everyone gave the slightest nod. Great! Now, get back to work, he ordered, everyone except you, he said, pointing to Ted. Have a seat, young man, he commanded, pushing a chair toward him with his boot.

Don’t say a word, Mr. Townley. What am I gonna do with ya? You’re my brightest and hardest worker, but the drinkin’ and gamblin’ and carousin’ – it’s gotta stop. Gotta have more leadership from you. Well, do I get it or send you back home to mommy and daddy?

You’ll get it, came the mumbled response. I’m turning over a new leaf beginning right now.

Glad to hear it, sighed Archer, shaking his head back and forth as if he only half believed it. Y’all, more than anyone, he continued, know about the potential for black gold in the Permian basin. You’ve taken geology courses in college. It’s only a matter of time and money. I aim to be the first to bathe in oil next to my rig on my lease in this otherwise barren desert.

But you’ve found a lot of water, which the ranchers need and they pay a good price for it, Ted pointed out.

True and I’m savin’ as much of the profit as I can. Savin’ up for that new rotary screw drill we’ve discussed. Damn expensive. Need to buy it, though, before this bleak land screws me.

Archer exhaled slowly and sat down behind his desk. His chin fell to his chest and he suddenly looked tired and old. To Ted, he was a fifty-year-old man who could have passed for seventy. Irony is, Archer whispered as if to himself, I came here from Beaumont where oil seems to pop out of the ground when struck by a walkin’ stick. Thought Midland was sure to be the next Spindletop. Still think so, he finished, now almost inaudible.

Following Slim’s earlier effort, Ted started to speak, figuring this was the ideal time to introduce the awkward subject of the robbery, but was halted by another raised hand from the boss. Puzzled, he exhaled as his mouth slowly closed. After giving Ted a closer inspection, Archer said, What’s with the swollen lip, son? And didn’t I notice a slight limp as you entered?

It was now or never. Listen, boss. Hold on while I recount what happened to me in the wee hours of the mornin’. And he did, with considerable detail, minimizing his vulnerability and maximizing his (intended) courage. If only the pistol hadn’t been present, he would have overpowered them and tossed them out into the dirt.

Anticipating a warm response to his heroic retelling, Ted was surprised by Archer’s first words: Y’all won $250 last night? That’s a pile of money, son. Might have considered investing some of it with me. Help buy the new drill, for example. At least y’all could have used it to pay off some of your previous gamblin’ debts.

Pay ’em off with a little extra left over, Ted said. Then he waited, eager to have Archer ask the next logical question. It worked.

Any idea who they were? Any clues? Were they involved in last night’s game and maybe thought ’bout recoverin’ some of their losses?

No one from the game, boss, but I’m pretty sure who they are. I think it’s the two newly-hired roustabouts, Sean and Conor. Leader had a heavy Irish accent and they both fit the description: one a big muscular ‘Mutt’ who was at least twice the size of his sidekick, ‘Jeff.’

It proved a mistake, though, to introduce the cartoon pair, because Archer started rambling on about how much he loved the characters and their escapades that were syndicated in a local newspaper.

Easy there, boss, Ted carefully interrupted, Let’s concentrate on findin’ ’em and discoverin’ their guilt or innocence. And, if guilty, hopefully recoverin’ my money.

Right, right, of course. Let’s you and me find ’em and pressure ’em to tell the truth, Texas-style, if y’all get my drift. Ted had been in rough-and-tumble west Texas long enough to know exactly what was being suggested.

Trying to change the subject, Ted asked, Should we call the sheriff?

Not yet. Probably wouldn’t be much help, though. Ain’t much of a lawman, in my opinion.

Need the law at some point, Ted countered.

Archer suddenly slapped his thigh and exclaimed, I know what we’ll do! Texas Ranger comin’ by this afternoon. Name’s Ken Decker. Good man. He’s chased bad guys all over this part of Texas.

Sounds like a good idea, but let’s start now as you just recommended. It’ll save the Ranger from having to do all the hard work.

So, they set off to search the area, every part of the fifty-acre lease, every storage shack, every group of men. Didn’t take long; it was flat country and one could see for miles in every direction. No luck. No one had seen them. Were they simply late for work? Or struck by illness?

After a thorough search, a frustrated Archer finally said, Don’t really care for those damn Micks anyway. A few good laborers, but most of ’em ain’t worth a plug nickel. Drink too much, always fightin’ too much. Ain’t hiring no more, he groused.

No one was more disappointed than Ted, who soon went back to his job with little enthusiasm. The two Irishmen were the likely perpetrators, and now they were nowhere to be found. During the break for lunch, he only briefly toyed with his food, spending most of his time retracing his steps, hoping the suspects would still show up for work.

Word had circulated about the robbery and several coworkers had sought him out to bombard him with questions, few of which were answered. He didn’t have the energy, and he was beginning, again, to feel sorry for himself. He hated the feeling.

His slide into self-pity was interrupted when Archer found him and announced, Ted, the Ranger just called sayin’ he’d be a tad late. Get back to work. Help ya take your mind off your troubles.

Resigned to his apparent fate, he responded, Probably right, boss. Headin’ that way now. Approaching the derrick, he realized everyone else was already busily engaged. Most of the men ignored him, concentrating on their jobs. One though, a bearded veteran named Clyde, smirked. He had been a big loser at last night’s poker game. He resented a smart-alecky college student getting so close during the summer to the inner sanctum, the internal architecture of the rig itself, especially the powerful and temperamental steam engine that operated the shaft. Clyde had been around long enough to remember the bad old days when roustabouts manually lifted the drill shaft with a rope or chain. Only when they were at the end of their rope and drained of energy could they release, step back and watch the shaft plunge downward into the sand and underlying rock. Now, luckily, and for several years, Archer’s steam engine got the job done. And this engine was Clyde’s baby. No one was allowed near it, not even the boss.

Sorry about your loss, Clyde said sarcastically as Ted walked by. Maybe the gamblin’ gods will smile again at tonight’s game. Comin’, ain’t ya?

Don’t believe so. Got other plans. That was a lie, because he had no idea what he would be doing, except maybe renewing the hunt for the two thieving Irishmen.

He continued his usual habit of avoiding Clyde altogether. Most of the crew also steered clear, since Clyde never bathed or washed his filthy clothes, making his body odor legendary. Total avoidance today, however, was difficult. Ted was downwind of the reeker and the wind was picking up. Since heavy winds were common, Ted gave it little thought, apart from wishing for a third hand to hold his nose as he carried pipe and wooden planks from the shed, past Clyde, to the vicinity of the derrick.

By mid-afternoon everyone had noticed and was complaining about the gale-like gusts. Hats were soon pulled down tightly and bandanas covered faces, leaving only two watery eyes squinting out into the blowing sand. Laboring in an oil field was dangerous enough without adding inclement weather into the mix. Ted was on the verge of pleading with the boss to give everyone a break when a scream ripped the air. Fearing the worst, men ran around trying to find its source.

It was Ted who made the discovery when he stumbled into a man who was on his knees, holding both hands over his head. His hands were covered in blood, which was quickly making the journey down both arms and beginning to drip into the sand from his elbows.

What happened? Ted asked anxiously as he saw others approaching.

Someone must have shot me, the bleeder blurted out.

Don’t be silly. No one heard a shot. Something must have struck your head.

Damn! another man cried in pain. Ted and others peered out into the swirling sand and soon identified big Slim Jordan bending over while holding his hand against his temple. In a few seconds, they heard him speak again, Some idiot put a pipe on this scaffoldin’, juttin’ out where it would rip into a head. Who would be so stupid?

Uh-oh. Everyone turned and glared in Ted’s direction. Sorry. Probably me, he confessed with a grimace. He was saved from further embarrassment – or worse – when the boss appeared, assessed the situation and asked Ted to help guide the wounded man back to the office. Thankfully, Archer didn’t seem too upset with him.

Try to be more careful in the future, Archer said rather calmly as they both tried to stop the bleeding and clean up the mess. I’ll smooth it over with the men. These things happen, especially when y’all can’t see more than a foot in front of your face. Now, get back out there and locate Don Evans. He’s the closest thing we have for a medic ’round here.

As Ted rushed out into the wind, it dawned on him, and not for the first time, that his boss really did want him to finish the summer successfully.

He found Evans and brought him back to the office, only to wince as he watched the hapless medic attempt to clean and suture the head wound. Ted guessed that even he could do a better job. It was at this moment that, he had the inkling: John might be willing to spend a few days providing a little medical assistance to the crew. It would be interesting and keep them both occupied. He pushed the thought aside, but not too far away.

Ted was on his knees mopping up the last bloody drops when the door opened behind him. Supposing it was Archer, he silently continued, not even looking up for confirmation. He realized it wasn’t his boss, however, when one of his circular motions with the bloody rag brushed ever so slightly against a very fancy boot. Startled, he pulled back and stared up into the frowning face of a stranger who immediately chided him by saying, Easy there, son. Them’s my favorite boots. Expensive. Made of rattlesnake skin. Handmade in Amarillo. Wore ’em today ’cause my work boots are being repaired. Y’all ever see a finer pair of cowboy boots?

No, sir, Ted managed to utter as he slowly rose, taking in the full picture from bottom to top: boots, jeans, belt with a buckle displaying a silver rifle etched into it, cowboy shirt and vest, tanned and weathered face with plenty of wrinkles, no moustache but a three-day stubble, a medium- high cowboy hat which had seen better days, and, as Ted’s eyes shifted back down again, a prominent badge pinned to the vest proclaiming Texas Ranger in big, bold letters. Sometimes stereotypes are true, Ted thought to himself.

I’m Captain Decker, he announced in a commanding voice, here to see Archer. Makin’ my usual rounds, but I have another reason for stoppin’ today. And you are?"

Townley, Ted Townley, came the answer as the slightly intimidated temporary janitor tried to lower his voice an octave or two. Just one of the roustabouts workin’ in this oil field.

Little young for that title ain’t ya? Decker opined. Decker’s stare bored into him, then he seemed to soften and he extended his hand for a shaking.

Standing up and eager not to show pain from Decker’s firm squeeze, Ted managed to say, Well, actually, it’s mostly a summer job. I’m a student at Texas A and M, and this will earn me extra college credit.

Good for you. Shows some gumption. Archer knows the oil business. Y’all can learn a lot from him.

Ted agreed but didn’t get a chance to respond because Archer burst into the office. Thought that was your car, Captain. Looks kinda banged up. Can’t be more than three years old. What gives?

More runnin’ ’round than usual. Y’all know we’re short-staffed. Me and Sergeant Kerr have to cover Midland and three other counties. Governor Ferguson keeps slashin’ our budget. Barely keepin’ our head above water.

Ain’t right, agreed Archer. Y’all do a darn good job just the same. Is there somethin’ special troublin’ ya today, Captain?

Last month or so there’s been a bunch of robberies ’round Midland and Odessa. Two men show up when a lot of cash is floatin’ ’round, mostly ’cause the activities are on the south side of legal. Usually common types of gamblin’, like cards, dice and prizefights. Sadly, dog and cockfights are makin’ a reappearance. Thought we had ’em squashed and driven out of the territory several years ago.

I overhear the men talkin’ about some of those vices from time to time, Archer admitted glancing at Ted. Can’t stand it, though, when I hear ’bout animals bein’ tortured for profit.

Sick, hissed the Ranger. Love to break up animal fights. Enjoy catchin’ ’em red-handed and poundin’ some sense into the bastards ’fore I throw ’em in jail.

But I thought prizefights were legal, Archer said. I occasionally see the fliers posted here and there. Been to a couple myself over the years.

Some are, some ain’t. Don’t matter to thieves, though, especially this new pair. They just stuck up a legal prizefight last weekend in Odessa and made off with the whole pot – several hundred dollars. And that was a small crowd of only ’bout fifty people.

Wow! I had no idea, said Archer. He paused for a moment, then added, Listen, Captain, describe the two thieves for me and Ted. If it sounds familiar, I think we may be able to help.

Ted could barely contain his excitement and started to speak but was again stopped by Archer’s familiar open palm facing his direction. In a few moments Decker had given a second-hand description that overlapped perfectly with Ted’s memory. Decker even pulled out and unfolded a rough sketch of the men drawn by an artist employed at state Ranger headquarters.

What do ya think? asked the Ranger expectantly.

Yup, that’s the men, said Ted with his head bobbing up and down. That’s the pair of scoundrels who broke into my room just before dawn this mornin’.

Another robbery? Maybe you’d better fill me in, son.

Ted did, quickly and dramatically, hoping the boss wouldn’t interrupt when he embellished the hero part to impress Decker. Archer remained silent and the captain seemed satisfied.

Good enough for me, Decker said. Probably hold up in court too.

Ted couldn’t have agreed more when Archer said, Captain, I think we’ve solved the mystery for ya. Names are Sean and Conor. Been here ’bout two months. Wanted to fire ’em more than once. Trouble rode in with ’em.

Transitioning immediately into his hunting mode, Decker retrieved the sketch with his left hand, unconsciously caressed the top of his pistol on his right hip and turned to leave.

Hold on there, Captain, Archer said while reaching out to touch his arm. Got bad news for ya. We’ve been lookin’ all day and they ain’t here. Never showed up for work. Probably miles away by now. Let me get whatever paperwork I have on ’em. Ain’t much, but it might hold a clue or two.

Decker looked pretty discouraged as Archer crossed the room to his filing cabinet. It hadn’t been a very successful summer for this well-traveled crime fighter: few arrests, lots of aching muscles from stakeouts and riding on bone-jarring county roads. To top it off, his second wife was on the verge of leaving him. He knew she had good reasons. It still hurt.

Archer walked over with the folder and said apologetically, Sorry, just one page on each man – less than a page actually. Does contain their last names and one old New York City address. But no relatives or other contacts.

Decker took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. This simple act seemed to revive him. His hunter look returned and he declared, I’ll turn over all the local stones to find ’em, and to be safe, call headquarters to alert the nearby train depots. If they escape my grasp other Rangers or police will nab ’em down the line somewhere. Do they own a car?

No car far as I know, answered Archer. Usually bum a ride or come on horseback. Come to think of it, they might own those two swaybacks.

Horses? Still pretty common in these parts. In the saddle myself time-to-time. Rough country out there. Well, if they skedaddled on horseback, they can be tracked. Any good trackers ’round here?

Yes, I do know one, said Archer. Been with me a couple of years. Good worker. Everyone calls him ‘Chief.’ Don’t know ’bout a last name. He uses ‘Parker.’ Claims to be a grandson of that conniving Comanche rancher Quanah Parker. Even says he attended granddaddy’s funeral a few years back in Oklahoma. Tall tales, probably, but Quanah had several wives and a bunch of children, so I figure he could have plenty of grandkids. Anyway, locals ’round here say he’s the best tracker in west Texas. I’ll have someone fetch him.

The restless Ranger headed straight for his car with Ted at his side attempting to match his pace. Along the way, Decker admitted the car wasn’t really his but rather a company car, owned and maintained by the Ranger organization. Not well maintained, Ted surmised, as he observed its outward appearance. Decker stopped behind the car and opened the trunk and checked its contents. Ted leaned forward to peer in and noticed an impressive arsenal lovingly laid out: a pump-action shotgun, a twelve- gauge double-barreled shotgun, a lever-action Winchester rifle (a Theodore Roosevelt copy), something that looked like a homemade machinegun, two extra handguns and several boxes of ammunition.

Looks like you’re ready for war, Ted observed, hoping for an explanation.

Ain’t done much shootin’ this summer, but I aim to be prepared. Me and the sergeant rarely ride together. Sidearm can handle one or two outlaws. A whole gang requires considerable more firepower.

Ted cautiously asked, Do regulations permit all these weapons and ammo?

Decker shrugged and said, Not really. Gotten in a tight spot more than once. Tired of all the regulations anyway. They drive me crazy. Listen, son. Let me show ya somethin’ I invented for the car. Figure it’s against regulations too, but I don’t give a damn.

Ted followed him to the driver’s door which Decker opened, then he bent forward and yanked on something. Ted heard a noise, turned to face the rear, and witnessed the miracle of Ranger ingenuity – the trunk had popped open.

Wow! That’s remarkable, Ted said with conviction. Maybe y’all should get a patent on that contraption.

Ain’t interested in no patent. Just want a quick access to my stockpile if I’m outnumbered. Decker sounded nonchalant, though his face betrayed more than a hint of pride.

They both began to wonder why Archer was taking so long to find Chief Parker. Impatient, Decker walked slowly around the car, kicking at the desert sand, not seeming to notice what his efforts were doing to his prized boots. Shortly, a man came running their way, but it wasn’t who they expected. It was Bud Tyler, one of Ted’s coworkers, who blurted out, I bumped into the boss a moment ago. Told him I didn’t know where that Injun was though I might have a notion ’bout what happened to the Irish boys. Told Archer what I overheard ’em plottin’, and he ordered me to get over here with the news. He paused, trying to catch his breath. He received a cold stare from Decker as the seconds dragged on.

Well, tell us, Decker shouted when he couldn’t stand to wait any longer. Where the heck did they skip to?

Overheard ’em talkin’ ’bout how much they hated the English and how they couldn’t wait to get home and kill their share of ’em. Mentioned somethin’ ’bout a rebellion. Ain’t sure what they meant, but I figure they’re headed east to catch a boat back to Ireland. That’s my best guess.

Decker swore and growled, What’s this rebellion thing?

Heard ’bout it at college this spring, answered Ted. Long history of anger in Ireland over being occupied and oppressed by the British. This uprising is serious; at least a couple of my professors believe so. A few of my fellow students were also discussin’ headin’ for Dublin to get in on the action.

Bad news keeps comin’ my way, sighed the weary Ranger. Even more reason not to delay the hunt any longer. He put his hand on Tyler’s shoulder and commanded him to run back and find Archer and the Indian or he would leave in five minutes. Massaging his bruised shoulder, Tyler bolted in the direction of the derrick.

Tyler must have been successful, because Archer and Chief beat the clock – barely. Awkward introductions followed with Chief mostly nodding rather than speaking. Unable to hide his irritation and in no mood for small talk, Decker got right to the point, summarizing the situation and requesting help in tracking down the two thieves.

Ain’t bad at trackin’ myself, but y’all come highly recommended, said Decker staring at and trying to read the signs on a very stoic face.

Will help, came the simple response after a brief hesitation.

Appreciate it, Decker replied with relief. Time’s a-wastin’, though. How long will it take to pack up? Gotta hit the road in a minute or two.

The stoic, yet regal, face broke into a sly grin as Chief answered oddly, How poor are they that have not patience. He then turned and walked away, saying over his shoulder, Back soon. I need only my bedroll and knife.

Decker looked perplexed, thinking the first response was just plain weird. Archer and Ted, however, were smiling because they knew the secret. Rushing to explain, Archer said, Chief was our first college boy, not Ted here. He quotes Shakespeare all the time. Hard to shut him up. We’re used to it, but it does get aggravatin’ at times.

Now I’ve heard it all, muttered Decker. A Shakespeare-quotin’ Injun. How did this happen?

Chief was a great athlete in high school, Archer explained, and wanted to compete at the college level too. His hero was Jim Thorpe, who won all those Olympic medals in 1912; so, he applied to and was accepted at Thorpe’s Carlisle College in Pennsylvania. Spent two years there but busted up his knee and ran out of money. Story goes he fell under the spell of a professor of English whose specialty was Shakespeare. Apparently, the spell hasn’t been broken yet.

From football to Shakespeare – quite a change, said Ted. He’s really hooked. Durin’ breaks or lunch he disappears. At first, we thought he was meditatin’. Turns out he finds some shade and devours more Shakespeare. Don’t let it get on your nerves, Captain. He’s usually pretty quiet.

I’ll keep that in mind. Decker shook his head, changing the subject. Listen. Tell me where those Irish fellows live and we’ll head there first. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find ’em at home. If not and they left on foot or horseback, that’s where we’ll pick up the trail. Hope they ain’t hitchhikin’. Trackin’ will be useless then.

Ted informed Decker that the suspects rented rooms close to him, so he asked Archer if he could ride along. Since it was already late on Saturday afternoon, Archer agreed to let Ted leave early. Chief Parker soon returned