Running Irons Read Free Page B

thirties entered. Although Captain Jules Murat, commander of Troop “G,” Texas Rangers, wore town clothes, he carried himself with the swing of a horseman. One might almost imagine him wearing a plumed, cocked hat, a cloak over a Hussar uniform, a saber at his side instead of a brace of holstered 1860 Army Colts, for there was a Gasconading air about him, a hint of controlled, deadly recklessness. Tanned, handsome, very rich, Murat was still one of the best Ranger captains under Howard’s command.
    “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 anotherblood 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