Sam Mountian Texas Ranger

Introduction

Towns and places named in Welton Novels were all there at one time. Now they might have the names changed or only be the remembrance of some of the old folks like me. A lot of the towns are underwater, some towns moved to the lakes shore, from the numerous lakes the Corps of Engineers has created in the state of Oklahoma.

This novel and others that follow of stories told from over fifty years ago. One of the men who told some of the stories fought under the only Indian General, Stan Waite of the Cherokee in the Civil War between the States. Other members of the family have delivered food and supplies to Robbers Cave in Oklahoma, as late as 1915 until the Officers of the Law knew about the cave. In addition, they delivered to other places near the cave until the 1930s to what people of the time called the modern day outlaws.

Chapter 1

The smell of coffee brought him partially awake, and then the surprising sound of laughter had brought him upright on the hard edge of the bunk. Be damn the law for him locking up a man for defending himself in a fight, Sam thought to him self. He rubbed at the black and blue welt above his eye, and winced at the results. Then Sam Mountain raised his long arms up over his head, clenching his bony hands together in a tight squeeze, pulling against the tightness in his shoulders. The long muscles down his neck and across his back shoulders from the pull, and his lean face twisted in a grimace.

It took him a long time to sit up, to unfold his length of leg and body carefully to swing over the edge of the cot provided with such care by the law of Beaver. Sam rested his head in the comforting nest of his hands, blocking out the spreading light that came from the one high window behind him. Winter darkened blond hair flowed past his eyes to cover most of his face. He leaned harder into his hands, elbows digging deeply into the corded muscle just above each knee. Damn these hard nights and cold mornings. I’m be damn this whole entire damnable town.

It could have worked here. He was older now, no longer a scrawny kid too easy to pick on, too weak to fight back. Sam snorted through his hands. He had a skill to offer with these hands now, but skills weren't enough. He hadn't learned how to get along with folks yet, how to talk easy and back away without losing himself. Nevertheless, he was always being pushed, men turning their anger at missed throws and lost loves on him.

Footsteps brought his head up and it wasn’t the law this time, not Harper Ludlow's heavy familiar tread. Softer steps, lighter, with a steady cadence that came quickly to his end cell and stopped. Sam looked up at the intruder and met a pair of dark eyes that didn’t give way under his stare. He took his own steady measure of this man and finding compact, dark, certain of himself and money, too, by the looks of his gear. Soft cream shirt, still clean with a silk kerchief knotted in a bright splash of red, a fine leather vest, and the give away of the silver belt and thin braid. Didn't see too many like this one and surely was out of his territory him being here.

The level eyes stayed on him, probing him, looking deep into him, but without the too familiar flush of growing anger. The length of time and the knowing dark eyes made Sam conscious of the dirt imbedded in his knuckles, the frayed and collarless shirt stained dark under each arm, the mended tear down the outside of his faded jeans. His own smell offended him. He rubbed at the welt again and then cursed softly. It was an effort not to look away from the dark face. A heat rose in him, be damned the man.

Sam Mountain rose slowly, never letting his eyes wander from the man just beyond the narrow, barred door. The dark head came up as Sam unfolded as the dark eyes went quickly up and down his six foot length. Sam knew the man had him now. He shook his head, strings of wild hair slapping against his face.

Ted Benson knew why Harper Ludlow had this man as a guest every week in his fine jail. Moreover, he could guess at the talent that lay in those limber hands and that loose jointed body. Despite the easy grin that came and stayed on the wide mouth, despite the obvious youth of the lean body, the awkwardness to the long arms and legs, there was a ready look of insolence to the face that would breed its own trouble.

It was the eyes heavy lidded eyes set deep in the narrow face. A homely face that hollowed out beneath flattened cheekbones. A face made younger by the almost white blond stubble of a thin growth of beard, framed with the flow of blond hair, matted and hanging below where there should have been a collar. It was the eyes and they were a dark greenish and blue framed by black lashing, outlined by a startling contrast of white. They carried a natural insolence that would constantly keep the owner in trouble. Yet there was something in this wild looking young man that Harper Ludlow wanted him to have. Ted kept his silence and watched the impatience come to a head.

You saw enough yet, Mister? There was a wait before the title, a moment long enough to draw insult, to bring a flush of anger. The voice matched the eyes, soft, polite, with a cocky slurring that drew blood. Ted only smiled and continued to watch. The deep blueness of the eyes flushed a darker green as anger built up in the prisoner.

Ted deliberately added to the fire. You’re not where you can challenge another, my friend. You are at my mercy. So why not listen to what I’m gona offer and then speak your mind to me. You can’t lose anything but time.

Sam shrugged his shoulders and turned away. He was another one who wanted to ride him, break him to bit and spur. Just like that damned long headed marshal. One stride brought him to the half full tin bucket, its odor ripening in the beginnings of the new day's warmth. One more step brought him to the coldness of the high stacked rock wall, the sill of the narrow window that brightened the air just above him. There was silence from the man behind him.

That son of a bitch was right. Sam turned around slowly on one boot heel, and looked back at the man, who waited with great patience on the other side of the barred door. What you want with me? Ludlow's got to let me out soon enough. I ain't looking for anything from you. He caught the escaping rage in his voice and sheathed the last few words. The cell grew smaller, the thin metal bars leaned in on him, threatened to touch his back, push at his side. Then the dark faced man spoke his words with a soft knowing.

But I’m looking for something from you. I need a man to take a mare to my ranch and to walk with her and her new foal. A man who knows enough of horses that will travel slowly and take great care. For this, Mister Ludlow says you are the man. However, I believe him. For this, only he is willing to let you go free and soon.

Sam couldn't stop his snort of disbelief. Ludlow had no cause to do any favors for him, to believe in him. The words continued from the man, and Sam set his mind not to listen. Nevertheless, the voice was soft, and persuasive.

I will pay your fine out of here, provide you with a good horse and a pack mule, and will pay you well the day you ride into my ranch. For this only, will the Marshal let you go so soon? Otherwise, you can stay in the jail for a while.

Sam thought it over. A nursemaid for a horse, it must be some piece of horseflesh to be worth the effort of an extra hand. This man must be in his own hurry or he would be making the ride himself. It could be another start. The fresh one he thought this town held for him. A chance for him to get out of this town, in fact he can get out of this whole damned state. He'd had enough fights here to last a good while.

Before he nodded his acceptance, the dark rancher put his hand through the bars. The tapered fingers were clean, the nails trimmed, but there was a buildup of callused padding at the base of each finger and across the palm. This was a working boss. I’m glad you will be riding with the mare. The small hand disappeared in Sam's long one, the dark skin a contrast to the reddened and cracked knuckles, the faded yellow coloring of last summer's sun. However, the strength in the hands was equal. I am Mister Ted Benson. You are called?

Sam. Sam Mountain.

Ahhh. The word was drawn out to a long sigh. In addition, the dark eyes went over him one more time. Finally, they came to rest on the homely face, holding the gaze of the strange sea-blue eyes. Yes, you are the right one.

The Mister was gone before Sam got to his own questioning. He watched the set of the back, the easy horseman's walk, as the man disappeared through the door to the office. Then Sam took the one step that brought him to the tin bucket to relieve him self. The slow grin stuck to his face. He was on his way out of here. Harper Ludlow was a fair man, as the law went. Therefore, it seemed to Sam. Breakfast always arrived before the town got to moving on its own. The board that served for a bed these past four days would now become his table. Sam was hungry. He was always hungry.

His grin widened. From the shape of this morning, he would be out of here soon, and with the pocket jingle to buy his own meals. Nevertheless, he still wanted his morning grub. A growing boy needed his eats. In addition, by his reckoning, his birthday was coming up in the next few days. Might even be close to twenty-one by now April 9. That was one certain thing he did know.

Chapter 2

Two steps out the door and the sun hit Sam’s eyes, took away his sight, and blinded him to the tipping of the walkway. He stopped then, and waited until his eyes adjusted themselves to the noon sun. The cold was still there, coming down from the snow peaked mountains, but the sun was reaching for height now, and he had been locked up for four long days. He blinked twice more, and stood, watching the almost deserted street.

The voice came from right behind him, and Sam clamped down on the impulse to spin around, his hand automatically reaching for the pistol not yet back on his hip. He thought he'd left the law back in the small heated office. However, Harper Ludlow wasn't letting him get away that easy.

There's a horse for you, down to Pat's livery. Talked to Pat and he'll give you a horse with no trouble, if you don't mouth off. He's had enough of you, like the rest of us. The Mister'll be waiting out at the W X. You hear this boy. By God, you better be to the ranch before supper or the whole town'll be out as a posse after you. You hear me? Sam liked the anger rising in the law's slow voice. He turned his head just enough to see the sorrowful face of his jailor.

I hear you, Marshal. You worried I won't get out, of your town fast enough. Not much can happen from here to the livery, and there you got Pat on his best behavior. I'll be out and gone soon enough. You bet.

You watch it with Pat, boy. He never forgave you for the paint mare you sold him lady broke. That horse damned near killed him. So watch yourself and get a move on. Sam only shook his head and walked carefully to the edge of the walk, then turned one more time to grin at the law before stepping off into the muddy street.

Ludlow watched the long figure amble across the way to the shabby livery barn. He shook his head in despair as a rider had to swerve to avoid running the boy down. He’d even get into trouble walking across a damn street. He waited several long minutes, and then sighed with relief as he recognized the swaying body on the high headed bronco coming out of the wide open livery door. Guess Pat had eased up on his temper for this last meeting.

He sure hoped to hell that his judgment of the kid wasn't wrong, that was something to him. Hell, even the town curs took to following the youngster on his Saturday night lonesome. He was hoping Ted could rope in the wildness, turn it to something good on that ranch of his way down there in the desert. Ludlow shook his head mournfully one more time. Sure hoped the kid worked out.

The livery horse wasn't worth stealing, but the idea picked at Sam's mind as the animal fought every stride, pitching and pulling to run. His meager gear had already been tied to the back of his old hull, waiting only for his appearance to be tossed over the back of the rank Grulla. Not worth stealing, but he'd be damned if he'd do anything more than cut the horse loose and let it run. His head ached and he wiped at the blood crusting in the corner of his mouth. Pat had gotten in his last few licks. Sam should have known better than to trust the lawman's word.

The sun felt good, the air smelled clean, even the roll and pitch of the eager horse was a relief, loosening his muscles, clearing his head. Sam pulled his hat free and slapped the bronco on the shoulder as he dug in his heels. The Grulla bellied down and bolted the quiet street, leaving scattered streaks of mud and surprised faces as a final salute to Beaver from Sam Mountain.

Ted Benson was impatient to head out, to get back home before much longer. The cattle were road branded and ready. They were heading out now, and he, too would leave today, trusting the high headed brown gelding he rode to take him hard and fast to the mountains just to the east of the city of Bovina. Ted's nerves kept his hand tight on the bridle, and the brown spun in a tight circle against the unaccustomed stinging in his mouth. The Indians were off the San Carlo reservation. It was time for him to ride home.

He let the brown gelding run and brought the horse in a wide circle back down the sloping hill to the W X headquarters. There was a horse coming fast, on the north road that led from the town of Beaver. The brown slid from his run to a smooth stop, settled and stood quietly. Ted crossed his hands on the low horn of the saddle, leaning on the heavy swell.

His dark eyes narrowed as he watched the wild run of the livery bronco, he swore softly to himself as the Grulla slid into the yard with front legs high, mouth wide. The boy was down and at the cinch before the horse was on four legs. Two quick tugs at the old hull, a pull at the slip eared bridle and the Grulla was free. Before Ted could speak up, the rider slapped the bronco’s shoulder with the sweated blanket. The Grulla kicked out at the wavering shadow, then found his freedom and fled from the corrals, headed out to the open grass.

That wasn’t your horse to turn loose. The long body of the boy twitched slightly at the words, but the sullen face gave no more acknowledgment than that small gesture. Ted pushed the brown gelding closer to the high shouldered rider, and spoke again. That wasn’t your horse to free. Sam swung around fast, spooking the brown, sending the fine head back into the rider's hands. You can take that crow bait out of my pay. Then he's mine to set free.

There was sharpness to the words that brought Ted one step closer to look at his new hand. There was a fresh cut at the corner of the wide mouth, a spreading bruise across the cracked knuckles of the right hand, and wildness to the vivid eyes that told its own story. Nevertheless, Sam Mountain said nothing more, only stood with feet planted wide apart, patched gear in one hand, watching the new boss.

Ted sighed and let it go. I’ll show you the mare and her colt. Come with me, and we’ll settle you with your supplies. I’ll show you the map that takes you to my ranch. You must not hurry on this ride, but you will travel steady. Give the colt a chance to toughen up, but with much care and much thought for your charges.

Sam dropped the gear against the barn wall and willingly settled into stride alongside the smaller man. He was puzzled but the challenge hadn’t been taken. It hadn’t been ignored, or hidden, but put aside as if unimportant. Guess he now owned a Grulla mustang running somewhere in the plains beyond Beaver. He grinned for this wasn’t a man to bristle and struts like a barnyard bully.

Sam glanced down at the man who was his boss. He walked one stride ahead of Sam, talking in that soft and insistent voice, telling Sam of the breeding of this fine mare, of the perils of the long trip into his country. It was easy to hear the words and let them wash away the residue of anger. Sam quickened his stride to keep pace as they came to the corral.

She truly was a fine mare. About 15 hands, good wide chest, a rich seal brown with heavy dapples showing through her rough-shed winter coat. A strip of white bisected the clean head, wider at the large eyes, tapering and ending in a diamond above the thin flare of nostrils. Hard legs, short bone, clean, tight with a good forearm, and sloping shoulder. The foal was a bright chestnut, clean headed like his dam, but already carrying the hint of size and breadth she lacked.

Sam stopped inside the pen gate, and then slid down the post at his back slowly, making no move that would spook the colt or the mare. He forgot about the days in jail. The dark welt was spreading across his temple, the foul words and the sting of the quirt that had ended his dealings at the livery. That was all behind him.

Soft sounds came from his throat, muttered soothing sounds that brought the tiny ears of the foal to stand straight. The mare slowed her chewing of the fine timothy hay, and stood quietly, one errant strand of the faded green grass hanging from her soft lips. Sam stayed on his heels. Slowly, one hand came up from his thigh to turn palm up, fingers wiggling slightly. He didn’t notice the Mister walk away from the fence to stand inside the barn. He didn’t see the riders come in from the long fence line. He sang softly, mindlessly, head down and eyes half-closed, demanding nothing and waiting for the shy colt to take the first step.

Tiny lips touched his long fingers and then moved away. Sam remained still. The mare took one step and whickered softly and the foal swung his head, and came back to the enticement of the moving fingertips. His short, red neck stretched out as his bad breath touched Sam's face. Then Sam felt the heavier weight of the mare's step, could sense her standing over him. Head still lowered, eyes averted, he sang his quiet words, hand palm up, asking for nothing.

Then the mare dropped her muzzle to his blond hair and picked at a strand. She tugged and then chewed reflectively, finally dropping the tasteless morsel and pushing against his face. Sam laughed gently, and stroked the flat jowl of the mare. Then he reached beyond her to the soft fuzz of the baby's forelock. Both animals stood near his hunched body and he stayed with them, head down and quiet, humming tunelessly.

Shoot fire, what the hell you think you're doing, who the hell are you? The loud voice spun the mare away from Sam. The colt staggered backward in panic, and Sam fought the impulse to jump to his feet at the hated familiarity of the sound. He waited until the mare and colt fled to the far side of the pen and stopped their circling. The foal buried his face in the mare's flank, butting at her udder, desperate for supper.

That freed him. He whirled and ducked through the gate and without stopping landed head first in the belly of Cully Burns. He knew that voice, the loud bullying tone that had made his days a misery on this sorry ranch for too long. Burns stumbled under the attack, heels digging frantically to find purchase in the soft dirt, arms wind milling for balance.

The rush of weight carried them both to the ground. Burns was a confirmed brawler as he immediately rolled on his foe. Hugging Sam and winding his stubby arms around the lean chest, butting his head at those hated blue eyes he could just see. Sam jammed a knee into Cully's crotch, but the man twisted easily and took the blow on one large thigh. The round head caught the blackening weal on Sam's temple, sending a shock that stunned. Burns kept his advantage, and rolled over again to pin the lighter man under him. One big hand found the corded throat, one fist pulled back for a pounding blow.

Sam could do nothing. Pinned by the extra fifty pounds, stunned by the crack on his head, he pried his eyes open to watch the fist grow smaller, then bigger. He closed his eyes again and tried for one last buck to move the mountain sitting on him. Then strong fingers circled Cully's wrist, while other fingers dug into his shoulder, finding nerves that pinched and bit hard. A soft voice gave him no choice.

You will get up, Mr. Burns. You will leave this man also. I know you ride for the W X, but you will not fight with this man. Cully loosened his hand wrapped around the muscled neck, pushed away from the body beneath him in an awkward motion, and stood up, swaying slightly, body tingling from the unused anger riding him. He looked down at Sam's long form at his feet, pleased with the blood trickling from the mouth, and the swelling bruise on the forehead. Then those hated blue eyes looked back at him, and the goddamn son of a bitch grinned.

Cully looked to the man who had given him the command, hoping for a second chance. You sure you know what you're doing with this one? He'll take whatever you got and even more I wouldn't let him near that mare if I was you.

He shook his head in unreasoning anger. You the boss you want this sorry son, you got him. With that final word, Cully walked away, still trembling with the energy of the unfinished fight. Had the son this time, too, but Cully knew when he was licked. If he was riding with the Mister's herd, it was no time to fight with the dumb eyed bastard. There was always later. Someday he'd get that son alone.

The toe of a soft boot dug gently at Sam's ribs. He looked up into the face of the Mister and Sam's grin widened. A hand came down to him, offering help. The shock of the gesture came and went quickly across Sam's long face, but Ted Benson saw it and wondered that one so young would have so little faith. Then the long fingers found his and Ted set himself to pulling hard against the weight of the downed man. However, Sam Mountain rose quickly, barely needing the help to stand on his own.

A hand on his shoulder turned Sam to face his boss. You didn’t need to fight that man. A word from me and there would be no fight. Why then did you choose so?

That Burns there, he's been at me since I come into town. I worked for Burns for a long while on this ranch. Burns always was looking to tell me what to do, reason I quit here. Don't take those words from no man.

So my young friend, you have the responsibility now to take this fine mare and her foal on a long journey. You’re going to fight each man who questions you? You going to brawl your way south, or will you care for your charges and hold your temper? I can’t afford to lose this mare through your imagined insults. This time you must make a choice.

Sam opened his mouth to protest, and then saw there wasn’t a thing he could offer beyond his temper and his reputation. Knowing all about him, this dark man was still offering to take the risk, willing to trust him and his judgment. It was knowing all that had put a different set to Sam's temper. He looked for Burns, and saw him across the ranch yard, stooped over the water trough, splashing at the dirt and blood. Sam brought his gaze back to the older man who was watching him with such intensity. It was a tough choice.

Several long strides brought him near the man. Burns straightened up quickly and one hand went to a pistol newly belted to his thick waist. He spat out the words from bruised lips. What you want, boy? You been warned off by the boss so you best leave this. Or do you like your fighting this easy?

Sam said nothing, only watched the round face of the heavyset puncher settle into its accustomed sour lines. He dipped his head to shadow his eyes and put out his right hand. Sorry, Cully. You were looking out for your job. 

Burns stared at the hand almost