Lone Star Ranger : A Ranger to Ride With (9781310568404) (12 page)

“That’s okay, Nate,” Jeb reassured him. “For
your first time shootin’, it wasn’t all that bad. At least you
didn’t plug yourself.”

“That’s not funny, Jeb.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. I saw a rookie
Ranger do that. Never got his gun out of the holster and plugged
himself in the leg. Needless to say, he wasn’t a Ranger after that
day. Main thing you’re doin’ wrong is, you’re thumbin’ back the
hammer too hard, rather’n usin’ a smooth motion. And you’re jerkin’
the trigger. You want to squeeze it, not jerk it. So remember, ease
back the hammer and squeeze the trigger. Ease and squeeze. You got
that?”

“Ease and squeeze. I got it.”

“Good. Now, reload and try again.”

Nate pushed the empty shells out of his gun
and reloaded. He slid the pistol back in its holster, then lifted
it cleanly, aimed, and triggered all six rounds. Three twigs
disappeared into splinters.

“That’s much better, Nate,” Jake praised.
“You’ll get the hang of this real fast.”

“I didn’t even do that good the first time I
shot a gun,” Bill Tuttle said, coming up behind them. “I have a
feelin’ you’re gonna be quite a marksman, kid. I know I wouldn’t
want to face you over the barrel of a six-gun, that’s for
certain.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

“Reload and try again, Nate,” Jake
ordered.

“What about all the bullets I’m
wastin’?”

“Don’t worry about ’em. Like Cap’n Dave told
you, Ranger pay ain’t all that much, only thirty a month and found,
and we’ve got to provide most of our supplies, includin’ our guns
and horses, but the State of Texas does supply all the ammunition
we need. It’s more important to make sure you’re a good shooter
than worryin’ about wastin’ lead practicin’. We’ve got all day, and
we’re not gonna stop until you hit all six of those targets ten
times in a row. So, reload and try again.”

***

Nate spent almost the entire day practicing
his shooting, not even stopping at noon for dinner. Before he was
finished, his shooting at a stationary target was so accurate Jeb
moved him on to firing at targets tossed in the air, then shooting
while running, then even dropping to his belly, rolling, aiming and
firing. More often than not, Nate hit his target. By late
afternoon, Nate was sweat-streaked, his face and hands stained with
powdersmoke. His right arm ached, his thumb was throbbing and
blistered from constantly thumbing back his gun’s hammer, and his
trigger finger was almost numb from pulling the trigger over and
over. He was exhausted, but happy. He wasn’t the natural gunman his
brother Jonathan had been, but it seemed he would be more than
competent with a six-gun.

“You did just fine, Nate,” Jeb praised him
as they headed back to camp. “Just keep practicin’ every chance you
get.”

“Wish I could handle a gun as easy as
Jonathan did,” Nate answered. “And my thumb’s killin’ me. So’s my
finger.”

“Very few men are naturals with a firearm
like you say Jonathan was,” Jeb said. “I reckon your brother was
one of those few. But, with some more practice, you’ll be a man any
Ranger’d be glad to have sidin’ him. And your thumb and trigger
finger’ll toughen up right quick. They’ll be calloused before you
know it. Let’s wash up and get some chuck. George should’ve saved
some beans for us, at least. That’ll tide us over until
supper.”

“Sure hope he doesn’t still want me to
gather firewood,” Nate said.

“You just let me handle ol’ George,” Jeb
answered. “The firewood’ll still be there to be gathered
tomorrow.”

***

Nate didn’t even bother to stay up with the
rest of the men after supper that night. Exhausted after the long
hours of target practice, his body aching in places he had never
imagined it could ache, he went straight back to his tent as soon
as he ate and tumbled into his bunk, not even bothering to pull off
his boots or remove his gunbelt. He was asleep two minutes after
his head hit the pillow.

Nate awakened the next day even before
George arrived to rouse him. He sat on the edge of his bunk, yawned
and stretched, scratched his belly, then picked up his shirt and
shrugged into it. Before buttoning the shirt and tucking it into
his denims, he pulled on his socks and picked up one of his boots.
He slid his foot into the boot and felt something slithering
inside. He shouted in terror, jumped up, and kicked the boot off.
It sailed across the tent and hit Dan Morton’s head with a thud,
landing next to him on his covers.

“What the…?” Dan shouted.

“Sn… Snake! Nate yelled. He pointed to the
reptile crawling out of his boot onto Dan’s blanket.

With a yell and curse of his own, Dan leapt
from his bunk. The blanket went flying, snake with it.

“How’d that thing get in here?”

“I dunno, Dan. It was in my boot.”

“Snakes’ll do that, lookin’ for a warm place
to hide, but they won’t generally do that in weather this hot. And
they hunt durin’ the night. Why would that varmint want to crawl in
your boot?”

“I think I know the answer,” Jim Kelly said,
from under his blankets. He pointed at Hoot Harrison, who was still
in bed, shaking with mirth.

“Hoot?” Dan said.

“What?”

“You put that snake in Nate’s boot, didn’t
you?”

“Who, me?” Hoot turned to face the others,
his eyes wide with innocence. “Why would I do that to ol’ Nate
here? We’re buddies, pardners. Besides, it was just a little ol’
garter snake. Couldn’t hurt anybody, ’cept mebbe a mouse.”

“I’ll kill you, Hoot,” Nate growled.

“Simmer down, Nate,” Jim ordered. “It was
just a prank. All rookies get pranks pulled on ’em. But it’s also a
good lesson. Snakes and scorpions like to crawl into a man’s boots
at night. The inside of a boot is warm and dark, a perfect hidin’
place for those critters. Always shake out your boot before
stickin’ your foot in it. That’ll save you from a nasty bite. At
least this mornin’ there was no real harm done.”

“Except scarin’ me out of ten years of my
life,” Nate retorted.

“Same here,” Dan added. “And a knot on my
head where Nate’s boot hit it. He picked up his blanket and gently
shook it. The snake fell out and shot under the bottom of the tent
wall.

“Now, see what you did, you two? You scared
my pet snake so bad he ran away,” Hoot said. “He was more
frightened than y’all were.”

George poked his head in the tent.

“What’s goin’ on in here? Nate, you about
ready?”

“Just a little excitement,” Jim said.
“Nothin’ to worry about.”

“I’ll be right with you, George,” Nate
added. He retrieved his boot, pulled it and its mate on, buttoned
his shirt and tucked it in, then jammed his Stetson on his head and
headed to help prepare breakfast.

***

Later that morning Nate was in the corral
along with Dakota Stevens, who acted as the company farrier. While
grooming Big Red that morning, Nate had discovered his horse’s
right hind shoe was loose.

“I don’t expect you to be a horseshoer,
Nate,” Dakota said as he picked up Red’s foot and inspected it,
“but it’s not a bad idea to know how to tack a shoe back on if your
horse throws one in the middle of nowhere. I always recommend a man
carry a couple of extra shoes, some horseshoe nails, and a hammer
in his saddlebags, just in case. Trimmin’ knife, too, and small
rasp, if you’ve got the space. Shoe pullers and tongs’d take up too
much room, but you can trim a hoof with your pocket knife in an
emergency.”

“How about my Bowie knife?” Nate asked.

“Too big. A Bowie’s meant for fightin’, not
much else.”

Dakota checked all of Red’s feet.

“Nate, his shoes are pretty worn. I’m gonna
replace all four of ’em for you. Won’t be able to hot shoe him like
a regular blacksmith, since I’ve got no forge, but they’ll stay on
until you get to town, even if that’s a month or two from now.”

“I appreciate that, Dakota. How much am I
gonna owe you?”

“Me? Nothin’. But you’ll owe the State of
Texas two bucks for the shoes. Cap’n Dave’ll take it out of your
pay. Now, you watch close while I get to work.”

Dakota took a pair of hoof nippers and,
placing one end on each side of a shoe, clipped Red’s feet until
all four shoes were removed.

“You’ve got a good horse here, Nate,” he
said. “Lotta horses’ll try to kick a farrier to Kingdom Come. Red’s
standin’ nice and calm. Only wish he wouldn’t rest his nose on my
back and doze off while I’m bent over workin’ on him. His head’s
heavy, and those whiskers tickle.”

“You want me to shave those off?”

“No! You just leave ’em be. A horse needs
those whiskers. They help him feel his way if he’s gettin’ into a
tight spot, or if there’s somethin’ under the grass where he’s
grazin’. Never trim the hair from inside his ears nor bob his tail,
neither. The hair helps keep dirt and bugs outta his ears, and his
tail’s the only protection he’s got against flies and skeeters. I
hate those high-falutin’ folks who bob their carriage horses’
tails, thinkin’ it looks pretty. Poor horse has no way to defend
itself from bites and stings. Now watch. I’m gonna trim the excess
from Red’s hooves and frogs. You want to remove any dead tissue or
excess hoof, but you don’t want to trim too close. You can cripple
a horse if you do.”

Dakota took a curved-bladed knife and
removed dead tissue from Dakota’s frogs and trimmed the edges of
his hooves.

“Now, I’m gonna rasp ’em down nice and even.
You want the same length all around.”

He took a large rasp and filed down the
hooves.

“Now, we put the shoes on. I’ll hold ’em up
to Red’s feet, take ’em and pound ’em with a hammer for a good fit
if I have to, then nail ’em on. Watch close when I do that.”

Dakota fitted the first shoe to Red’s left
forehoof.

“I generally start with this foot and work
my way around. Most riders check their horses’ feet in that order.
You?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now look close. You put the nails in
these holes. Drive ’em in like so. You want ’em to come out of the
wall just about here.”

Dakota hammered six nails into place.

“Next you turn around, pick up his hoof so
it’s in front of you, then bend down the ends of the nails and file
’em smooth, along with the hoof wall.”

Nate watched as Dakota finished the first
hoof, then dropped Red’s foot to the ground.

“You think you can handle this? If your
horse throws a shoe, either you do or you’ll walk. Can’t chance
cripplin’ a good horse for life by ridin’ him with one unshod
hoof.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll be able to manage.”

“Good. I’ll finish up here, then you can
turn Red loose.”

Andy Pratt wandered up while Dakota was
nailing the last shoe in place. Next to Nate and Hoot, he was the
youngest Ranger in the company, nineteen years old. He was a
redhead, with a smattering of freckles across his face and green
eyes which always seemed to have a hint of devilment sparkling in
them. He was leading his black gelding.

“Howdy, Nate. Howdy, Dakota.”

“Andy,” Dakota said.

“Howdy yourself Andy,” Nate answered.

“Nate, I’ve been admirin’ that sorrel of
yours. Sure is a fine lookin’ animal,” Andy said.

“Thanks, Andy.”

“
Por nada
. I’d bet he’s real fast,
too. Not as fast as Jeb’s paint, of course. Dudley’s the fastest
horse in this company, mebbe even in all of Texas.”

“He’s also the most spoiled,” Dakota
muttered.

“Boy howdy,
that’s
for certain,” Andy
agreed. “But Nate’s horse, there, looks plenty fast. Only thing is,
he’s not as fast as my Diablo here, I’d wager.”

“I dunno,” Dakota said. “This here Big Red
looks like a mighty fast horse.”

“He’s still not as fast as my Diablo,” Andy
insisted.

“I’d say he is,” Nate answered.

“Only one way to prove it,” Andy replied.
“We’d have to race each other. You agreeable?”

“What about Cap’n Dave? Would it be all
right with him?”

“Heck, we have horse races all the time.
Gives us somethin’ to do while we’re hangin’ around camp. The
boys’ll even place bets to make things a bit more interestin’. Not
that anyone’d be fool enough to bet on your sorrel. Diablo’ll leave
him in the dust. What d’ya say, Nate?”

“You and your horse have just been
challenged, Nate,” Dakota said. “You gonna let him talk about your
cayuse like that?”

“Me, maybe, but not my horse. When and
where, Andy?”

“This afternoon, four o’clock. Course’ll go
around the boundaries of the camp. You can walk it out beforehand
to get the feel of it. So, we’re on?”

“We’re on. And I ain’t worried about eatin’
Diablo’s dust. You’ll be lucky to stay close enough to Red to even
see his heels.”

***

At four o’clock, every Ranger was gathered
to watch the race between the newcomer, Nate, on his sorrel Big
Red, and Andy on his black, Diablo. Even the sentries had been
allowed to leave their posts. Excitement had been building all
afternoon, and wagering continued up to the last minute. Tex
Carlson had been given the task of keeping tracks of the bets. Nate
and Andy were at the starting line, their horses snorting and
prancing. Captain Quincy called for quiet.

“Andy, Nate, you’ll start when I fire my
pistol. You know the course, out of camp, up the hill to the dead
oak, around that, left across the top of the ridge, outside the
split trunk cottonwood, then back down to the finish line here. No
shortcuttin’, or that man gets disqualified. Jump the start and
you’re disqualified. Are all bets placed, Tex?”

“All but yours, Cap’n.”

“I have to maintain complete impartiality as
commanding officer of this company, so I can’t show favor by
placing a bet on one man or the other.”

“You could bet on both, Cap’n ,” Phil Knight
shouted, to laughter. “Couldn’t lose that way.”