“Trouble, Jules,” Howard said, waving Murat into a chair and offering his cigar case.
“No thanks,” replied Murat, taking a cigar. “We’ve plenty of our own.”
“I hate a humorist at this hour of the day,” grunted the Governor.
“And me. What kind of trouble have you for me this time, Stan?”
“Cow thieves.”
Clipping the end off his cigar, Murat looked down at the weed. Although he showed nothing of his emotions, Murat had been sweating out the thought that the trouble might be yet another blood feud sprung out of the hatreds left behind by Davis’ administration. Man, there you had real Texas-size trouble. With an entire county taking one side or the other, it was surely hell trying to discover the rights and wrongs of the affair, locate and arrest killers from either faction and pacify the rest before more blood spilled.
“There’s plenty of them around,” he remarked, showing remarkable tolerance for a man who owned a good-sized spread and large herd.
“Small stuff,” stated the Governor. “It’s gone beyond being small up to Caspar County, Jules.”
Watching Howard, the Ranger captain felt his usual admiration. Sigmund Freud had not yet got around to presenting his views on human mentality to the world so, not knowing he should subconsciously hate his employer, Murat was willing to respect Howard as a brilliant man doing a difficult task. No matter what happened in Texas, sooner or later—and mostly sooner—Howard heard of it. More than that, the Governor formed his own conclusions from what he heard and mostly those conclusions proved to be correct. Mostly Howard left the Rangers to their own devices. When he called in one of the captains commanding the various companies, it meant Howard felt more than usually concerned about some incident or other.
“I smell bad trouble brewing up there, Jules,” the Governor went on. “Vic Crither’s passed word for Bat Gooch.”
“That is asking for trouble,” Murat admitted, almost showing the concern he felt. “What’s Gooch been fetched in to do?”
“Get the cow thieves—at two hundred dollars a head.”
Murat did not hold down his low whistle. “That trouble you smell, I can get scent of it now. Gooch’ll not be content just to ride Crither’s range and let his name scare off any festive jasper with a running iron. He’ll go out looking for the cow thieves no matter whose land they’re working on.”
“You’re right,” Howard agreed. “With a man like Gooch riding the range, trouble’s just over the rim and in peeking out ready to come boiling over. Bringing Gooch in’s like turning loose a rabid dog to hunt down coyotes.”
“No man likes to see his property stole from under him,” Murat remarked.
“Which same I’ll give you,” Howard replied. “But there are better ways of stopping it than fetching in professional killers. Like you say, Gooch’s not going to be content with just scaring the cow thieves off, he’s there after a bounty. Only if he goes on to some other range, or downs an innocent man, he’ll blow up all hell. I want action on this, Jules—and I want it fast.”
When Murat nodded his agreement he was not merely giving lip-service. After nine months in office together, Murat had learned to respect Howard’s judgment and knew the Governor’s insistence on immediate action did not spring from either panic or vote catching. Howard knew Texans, knew their high temper, their loyalty to kin or ranch. Already two bloody feuds and range wars ripped at Texas counties and none knew the cost in lives and misery they brought to the suffering citizens of the areas involved. Another such affair could start those fools in Washington thinking about trying to reinstitute Reconstruction and, by cracky, that might be enough to restart the Civil War. Texas, least affected Southern State in the war, a nation of born fighting men who learned to handle weapons almost before they could walk, had never taken kindly to Reconstruction or having the “if he’s black he’s right” policies of the Radical-Republicans up North forced on them. Another non-Texan governor, such as Davis might see the entire State torn apart by further civil conflict. Other than the most bigoted, Southern-hating, liberal-intellectual Yankees, no man in his right mind wanted that.
“It needs action,” the Ranger captain drawled.
“But?” asked Howard. “There’s a ‘but’ in your voice.”
“I’ve only three men in camp out of my entire company. One with a broken arm, one with a bullet-busted thigh and the third’s flat on his back with lead in his chest cavity.”
“Three—out of twenty?”
“The rest are all out handling chores,” Murat explained and went on hopefully, “Shall I go?”
“I can’t spare you, Jules. You’re needed here, organizing and attending to enlisting more recruits.”
“Danged if I don’t resign and re-enlist as a private. I’ll send off the first of my men to come in. Although the Lord knows when that’ll be.”
“Let’s hope it will be soon,” the Governor answered.
Clearly the interview had ended and Howard never wasted time in idle chatter. Coming to his feet, Murat turned and walked from the office. Before the Ranger reached the door, Howard had taken up a report from an Army commander and started to study the problem of controlling the Comanche Indians.
On leaving the Governor’s office, Murat collected his horse and rode down town toward the Ranger barracks which housed Company “G.” Once clear of the State Capital’s area, Austin looked pretty much like any other cattle town. Rising along the wheel-rutted, dirt-surfaced street, Murat gave thought to his problem. No matter how much he wished to take action and, if possible, prevent another range war blowing up, he could do nothing until one of his men returned from the various tasks which held their attention.
A small, two-horse wagon came slowly along the street toward Murat. In passing, its driver—a tall, thin, dirty-looking bearded man in a frock coat, top hat, dirty collarless white shirt and old pants—caught Murat’s eye and gave a slight jerk of his head. So slight had been the motion that a less observant man than Murat would have missed it. Even seeing the nod, Murat gave no sign but rode slowly on. After passing Murat, the man turned his wagon and drove it along an alley between two buildings. Murat rode on a short way before swinging his horse into the space between a saloon and its neighboring barber’s shop. Beyond the buildings lay a small, deserted street and the wagon had halted along it. Riding up to the halted wagon, Murat looked down to where its driver stood examining a wheel.
“In trouble, Jake?” he asked.
“Danged wheel’s near on coming off,” the man replied.
“Let me take a look.”
Swinging from his horse, Murat walked to the wagon and bent down to inspect its wheel. Doing so put his face near to the man and the stench of unwashed flesh wafted to his nostrils. Murat wondered if Jacob Jacobs ever took soap and water to his hide, but did not ask. Jacobs was a pedlar, but who augmented his takings by acting as a gatherer and seller of information garnered in his travels around the range.
“You interested in running irons, Cap’n?” Jacobs asked in a low voice, bringing up the matter in the middle of a louder tirade about the poor quality of workmanship in the fitting of the wheel.
“Depends where they are,” Murat answered.
“Up to Caspar County.”
“I’m interested. What do you know?”
“I’m a poor man, Cap’n. There’s no money to be made by a poor old Jewish pedlar these days.”
“Or a Ranger captain,” Murat countered.
“Heard about all the trouble and went up there special, me being a public-spirited citizen and all,” Jacobs put in. “It’s allus been poor trading country up there and I lost business.”