The Savage Breed - Randy Denmon

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the horn with his forefinger. He then removed a cotton patch and sphere-shaped, fifty-caliber ball from the pouch. He placed the patch on the end of the barrel and the slug in his mouth, wetting it nicely before placing it on the patch. With his thumb, he gently pushed the slug down the barrel, then removed the long, steel ramrod, stored below the stock, and rammed the slug to the base of the barrel, smoothly seating it against the powder with several light strokes.

      Travis smiled at the other Rangers as he watched Chase take up a comfortable position on the bank, chest and elbows on the dirt. Chase made a small bench out of some rocks and rested the rifle, decorated with ornate brass, on the rocks. He cocked the rifle’s hammer and secured a tiny percussion cap to its tip.

      “Get your pistols ready, boys. We may have a fight on our hands,” Travis murmured softly.

      Chase pulled the curved silver plate of the butt securely to his shoulder and adjusted the double-set trigger, allowing the front trigger to collapse with a hair’s touch. He licked his finger and held it high to check the wind, more show than anything else, before putting his cheek to the stock.

      Travis looked back at the creek. Rubio was still standing, glaring in the late-day sun. Travis and the other Rangers got deathly still. Travis felt his stomach move with apprehension and anticipation. A few seconds passed slowly. He heard the metallic click of the hammer fall, a small pop, and an instant fizzle before the earsplitting eruption. Travis trained his eyes on Rubio—maybe a second’s delay. The man tumbled backward. The hush held for a few more seconds before some screaming drifted up from the river.

      Travis raised his glasses. The two men in the shade were scurrying for the cover of thicker brush, up the riverbank. He looked at Chase, who wore a big smile. “What a shot,” said Travis. “I’ll be forced to hear about this for years. Let’s get out of here. We’ll be lucky if any of us ride into Goliad by tomorrow.”

      Chase stood up and dusted his pants. “You mean like the old bandit you gunned down up on the Brazos? You’ve exaggerated and retold that story so much, it’s nothing but a fable now.”

      On Chase’s words, the five Rangers promptly mounted and struck out from the river, storming into the sage. The group rode hard for a half hour before they heeled atop the pinnacle of a hill, spelling their horses and allowing an inspection of the ground below.

      “Our horses are pretty near spent for now. And we need to find some water,” Chase said, breathing heavily.

      Travis looked at the horses, their coats dripping wet and spotted with salt lines. He patted his paint’s wet neck. The group was all staring into the valley below and the approaching cloud of unsettled dust. “They’re on our tail. Ground’s not fit for covering our tracks, and I don’t think we’re going to outrun them. We’re going to have to fight.” As he spoke, Travis pulled his Colt five-shot revolver from its holster. He checked to make sure it was fully loaded, then slowly spun the cylinder a few times to check its freedom, the action producing several eerie clicks. He held up the pistol, muzzle pointing skyward.

      “Shouldn’t be difficult,” Chase said. “We’ll split up. I’ll take Chester and Private Fitzmorris with me. You and Tony will break off and double back behind this hill at a place where you won’t kick up much dust. We’ll drive on, making a big dust storm, and then find a place for good defense. That will suck them in, and you and Tony will come in from behind. We’ll get them from two directions.”

      “All right,” Travis agreed, spurring his mount and settling in his saddle. “But don’t go more than a half mile or so. On this ground, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to stay behind them very long without being noticed. We’ll wait till we hear some shooting before we come in, to make sure you’ve got their attention.”

      Travis had a worried look. From the shelter of a small grove of oaks, he and Tony watched the bandits’ trail, only a sand sprinkle moving above the rampant shrubs. Three black birds chirped in the trees, the only sound other than a wispy wind cutting across the plain. The two had managed to fall in behind the outlaws without being detected. But Travis was now watching the bandits divide into two groups, one flanking off to their right.

      “Didn’t plan on this,” Travis said, still on horseback. “One of those groups is going to get ambushed, but the other will flank around and get Chase and Chester from the rear or come in behind us. Pretty good idea, but rare for these bandits. Either way, it complicates things.”

      “Looks like it’s all five of them,” Tony added, looking down at the tracks below his horse. “What you want to do?”

      Travis slowly rode out of the grove. “When the shooting starts, we’ll charge in. But on a flank, hopefully on some high ground with cover that can be easily defended. Get both bunches.”

      No sooner had Travis gotten the words out of his mouth than the firing commenced. The shots unequivocally delineated Chase’s location; the Rangers’ novel Colts fired much faster than the flintlock revolvers common south of the border, also producing a much crisper and more distinctive bang. At a slow trot, Travis led Tony to a rock-strewn ravine, a hundred yards left of the firing, which had reached a crescendo. Also heard among the gunshots were a few shouts in English and Spanish. Travis looked at the ditch, figuring Chase and the Rangers were using it for the ambush. He put a finger over his lips as he stepped down from his stirrups, motioning Tony to do likewise.

      Travis hunched low, pistol at the ready, and scurried through the brush, weaving around the cacti and cat-claw. He finally squatted behind a horse-sized boulder where the ravine bank dropped off sharply, wiping a dab of perspiration from his brow with a sleeve. Tony joined him. Beyond the boulder, in the ravine, shots danced off the rocks on each side of the dry creek bed and bullets zinged through the foliage. Travis eased up to steal a peek at the action. As he did, he heard a shriek, a loud scream in English. He could see that one of the bandits had crossed the draw and taken up a position in an elevated rock garden, commanding a good view of Chase’s position, fifty paces down the ravine. The labyrinth of stones was a patchwork of distorted dark colors, shade, and sun. Travis knelt back behind the cover and pointed. “There’s one over here. Sounds like he’s already shot somebody. Circle around and fill those rocks with bullets from the rear. When that flushes him out, I’ll shoot him.”

      Travis patted Tony on the shoulder, and the young mestizo Ranger disappeared into the deep gorge. Travis followed, pausing in the shadow-draped ravine. He looked up at the opposite bank, where he planned to make his assault. The area was exposed; certainly he’d be in harm’s way. He counted the seconds, trying to speculate how long it would take Tony to get in position, not wanting to crawl into the open before he could shoot. He counted to ten as his heart moved up into his throat. All the commotion had kept his nerves calm, but only a few seconds of inactivity had gotten them going.

      Travis searched the opposite bank for cover, anything—a small draw, a stub of vegetation, a rock. He ducked behind a little pear cactus, not much cover, and peered over the bank at the rock promontory. Fortunately for him, Tony simultaneously began to pepper the boulder complex. Travis scrambled over the loose rock, finally standing. He saw a head appear from the maze of stones. He drew a bead. It was a fifty-yard head shot. Without confidence, he charged onward. The bandit had turned his head, haphazardly firing a few shots behind him. Travis stopped at twenty yards. He put the side of the man’s head in his sights, paused his breathing, and pulled the trigger. His gun spoke only once, and the bandit fell from sight.

      “I got him!” Travis yelled and dashed forward, leaping over a few rocks. The bandit lay on the ground in a death spasm, blood gushing from his head. Just for insurance, Travis put another shot in the man’s chest as his heart rate slowed. He turned his attention back to the ravine and the other gun battle; he had blocked it out during his assault. The shooting had stopped. He gave the area a diligent inspection: no movement or noise at all.

      Travis exhaled a deep breath as he reached over and grabbed the bandit’s boot, dragging him a few paces to where the late-day sun illuminated his face. He put his foot on the outlaw’s greasy black mane, turning his face up. As he did, he heard a few footsteps pattering on the dirt behind him. His skin tingled and instinctively, he whirled

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