The Savage Breed. Randy Denmon

to rolling hills. A few winks of silver in the brown blur told him the riders, whoever they were, were well armed. “Mexicans?”

      “I doubt it. They haven’t crossed the Los Olmos River yet. And I’ve never seen a Comanche or Apache stir up that much dust.”

      While Chase spoke, Travis thought he heard a few gunshots in the distance; any noise carried for miles in this country. He looked at Chase, studying his reaction. The two had a bond carved from many battles. They were friends, but Travis trusted Chase like no other, and knew his moods and thoughts like the back of his own hand. Chase’s look of worry infused Travis with cold concern.

      “Whoever it is, they’re in one hell of a hurry south. Let’s ride up on one of these hills and investigate.” Chase slapped his horse on the neck with his hat, and the mare reared sideways before racing headlong off into a thicket.

      Only a minute later, Travis topped a small hill and made a running dismount. He removed his field glasses from his saddle and rested his eyes and elbows on the back of his horse.

      “Hell, that’s Texas Rangers chasing somebody,” Chase suggested, also studying the posse in a similar position.

      “Whoever they’re chasing is ducking into the river,” Travis added. Through his binoculars, the men in question were only faint images. But Rangers were easy to spot, with their red shirts, white hats, and familiar repeating pistols.

      “Let’s go give ’em a hand.” Chase put his glasses back in a saddlebag and quickly remounted.

      Ten minutes later, Travis led Chase, angling through the brush to the dusty north bank of the Nueces River. The gunfire had subsided. Ahead, down the riverbank a hundred or so yards, he saw the lawmen, circling on horseback, trying to pick up a track. He cupped his mouth with a hand and yelled, “Lieutenant Travis Ross! We’re coming in. Don’t shoot.”

      In the small opening, the three Rangers came into view, and Travis knew two of them: Chester Woods and Tony Flores, seasoned veterans. Flores had mestizo blood, all 120 pounds of him: tiny, dark, and humble, but with a heart as big as a wagon wheel and fortitude envied by the entire Ranger contingent. Both men had been under Chase’s or Travis’s command during the first Ranger engagements with the Comanches around the Brazos.

      “They hit the river back a piece and then moved east,” Chase said. “Who were they?”

      “Bandits,” Chester answered. “Robbed a store in Cotulla. Killed an old man for two horses and six dollars.”

      Travis turned in his saddle, looking out at the lonely land and giving the backdrop a weary inspection. It was still mid-morning, the day barely holding its cool nip. He rode over and shook Chester’s hand, then Tony’s. “Good to see you, Sergeant Flores. What you boys doing way down here?”

      “Looking for you two. There’s been a change of plans. Got orders from Major Bob Williamson himself,” Chester said, boasting. “I quote: Get their sorry asses over to Goliad with all haste. Report to Colonel Fannin there. And no dabbling in watering holes and gambling houses—there’s a fight coming.”

      Travis and Chase laughed.

      “I can see Bob’s never been to south Texas,” Travis added. “But if we win this war, I may open up a gambling and sinning establishment. You sure need one after crossing this depressing bush.” Travis turned to the third Ranger, a young, freckle-faced, whiskerless man—almost a boy—with clean clothes and a new pistol. “Who’s the pup?”

      “This here is Private James Fitzmorris—just signed on,” Chester replied.

      Travis followed Chase over to the young man, and the two formally introduced themselves.

      “James,” Travis said, “I’m glad you gave your body to the cause. We need it. But what they didn’t tell you is that when you sign on with this bunch, you’re giving your soul to the Devil.”

      Chase and Tony snickered, and Travis turned to see both men’s smiles stretching to their ears.

      “Well, if the good Major Williamson says we better get to Goliad, we better get going. We’ll follow the river east. Might find these bandits and administer some justice,” Travis continued, gently kicking his heels against his pony.

      Mid-afternoon found Travis and the Rangers lying on their stomachs, inspecting a deep ravine cradling the Nueces River. The Texas sun was at their backs, illuminating the flat, white rocks, the maroon dirt, the yellow foliage, and the clear, indigo river trickling peacefully along. Travis was studying three men camped at a bend in the river, almost a quarter mile downstream. The Texans had tracked the outlaws to here, almost twenty miles from the Laredo trail.

      “That one standing is Rubio Medina,” Chase whispered, continuing to look through his field glasses.

      “You sure?” Travis said in a low voice, looking at the suspect in question, a short, skinny, dark-skinned man wearing a bright green shirt. From this distance, few details were discernible, but Travis had learned over the years that his partner was rarely wrong, his vision acclaimed to be the best south of the Brazos River. “How can you tell?”

      “I just can. The way he moves. Nobody else wears a big black and red sombrero. That’s his two brothers with him.”

      “Really,” Travis said with interest, moving his glasses from the man standing to the other two bandits, lying under the shade of a small oak. “You think one of those is Paco?”

      “He ain’t got but two brothers,” Chase answered.

      “You know these thieves?” Tony said softly.

      “Wretched lot of outlaws—horse thieves, murderers, marauders,” Travis answered. “One of those two under the tree is the chief federale for Coahuila. They do most of their plundering on the border or south of it. Likely up here because the arrival of the Mexican army has put them out of business down there.”

      “He’s a thief and he’s the state police?” Chester asked. “No wonder the Mexicans are revolting.”

      “Rubio’s the bad one—mean as a snake,” Chase continued. “They call him Diablo. Would rather cut your throat than look at you. Paco’s just as crooked, but he lets Rubio do most of the dirty work—covers for him most of the time. Don’t know the other brother, but with blood like that, he can’t be a saint.”

      “What happened to the other three? We were tracking six,” Chester asked.

      “Probably branched off to camp somewhere else. Mexican bandits usually break their campsites up into several locations,” Travis mumbled, scanning as far as the eye reached for anything unusual.

      “I’m going to shoot that son of a bitch right now,” Chase said with a calm voice. “Rubio’s got a bounty on his head. We’ll just leave him right there for the coyotes and move on.”

      “You can’t hit him from here,” Travis retorted.

      “Yeah, I can,” Chase answered. “Tony, go get me that Kentucky long rifle and ammo pouch off my horse.”

      “You’re just going to stir them up like a bunch of pissed-off fire ants,” Travis said, turning to look back at the river and the tiny image of the men in the distance. “Mexicans get worked up over family. You’ll probably rile ’em up even if you miss.”

      “I’m not going to miss. They’ll never know what hit him. We’ll move out of here quietly and on to Goliad. I’ve been wanting a chance to shoot this bastard for several years—not going to pass up the chance. Besides, if I kill him, especially with this shot, word will get back to Goliad before we do. I’ll ride in there like a hero with all my admirers.”

      “If you miss, you’ll be the laughingstock of the bar at Johnny’s tomorrow night,” Travis answered.

      Chase grabbed the fifty-inch, nine-pound, maple-stock rifle from Tony and opened the small leather ammo pouch. He sat the rifle on the ground, butt first, and removed