A Ranger Named Rowdy by James J. Griffin

Author:James J. Griffin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horses, historical fiction, holidays, christmas, short story, thriller suspense, action adventure, gunslingers, the old west, texas rangers, thriller historical, short story single author, frontier tale
Publisher: High Noon Press

The trip to the D Cross S was through rugged, brush-choked rangeland, cut by arroyos and washes. However, the headquarters of the D Cross S itself was in a small glade. The main house was a sprawling adobe structure with a red tile roof. An arched veranda surrounded the building on all four sides. The walls were thick and the windows up high and small. The structure was built to be warmer in winter and cooler in summer… and for defense against any marauders. Anyone trying to raid the D Cross S would find breaching those thick walls an almost insurmountable task. Unlike at the Diamond T, no one challenged the lawmen as they rode up, reined in, and dismounted. They tied their horses to the rail out front, then Sheriff Little knocked on the thick oak door. A moment later it was answered by a pretty young woman, her olive complexion, raven-black hair, and dark eyes making her Spanish blood obvious.

“Sheriff Little. Buenas dias,” she said. “Is my father expecting you?”

“No, he’s not, Maria,” Boyd answered. “But we do need to speak with him if he’s in. These are Texas Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum. You already know Rick.”

“My father is here, and of course he will see you,” Maria answered. “Follow me.”

She led them into a large parlor, furnished with sofas and chairs of rich leather. Spanish tapestries hung from the walls, and Aztec pottery was placed around the room. A fire blazed in the huge fireplace, which took up almost a quarter of one wall.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable,” Maria urged. “Take off your coats. I will get my father.”

The men did as she requested, shedding their heavy coats and taking seats. A moment later, Maria reappeared.

“Gentlemen, this is my father, Diego Santos. Father, Rangers Tim Bannon and Tate Slocum.”

“Rangers, welcome to my home,” Santos said. “Mi casa su casa, as they say in Mexico. Please, make yourselves comfortable. In fact, we were about to have our noonday meal. You will join us, of course.”

“Thank you, Senor,” Tim said. “However, this is a business visit, not a social call.” He was a bit taken aback by Santos’ appearance. True, the man had the bloodline of old Spain apparent in his height, stately bearing, and dark features. However, unlike Tim had expected, he was not dressed like a Mexican vaquero. He was in typical cowboy clothes, and the hat he wore was not a high-crowned, broad-brimmed sombrero, but a well-worn, battered brown Stetson. Even the Spanish accent in his speech was barely discernible, and despite his formality in fact Santos spoke mostly in the familiar west Texas drawl.

“I knew it must be,” Santos said. “I’m certain you’re here about the trouble I have been having with Earl Tuttle. Nevertheless, that is no reason for me to be inhospitable. All of you will eat with us, then afterwards we can talk over drinks and cigars.”

“I am pretty hungry, Tim,” Tate said.

“Me too,” Rick added. “My belly’s been growlin’ for an hour now.

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