Prologue

Austin, Texas

Summer, 1882

“Seeing as how it’s your last day before you become a captain,” Deputy Sam Carter said with a grin, “maybe all the desperadoes are already making tracks for the Rio Grande and we’ll have an easy day of it.”

Jake Turner swung into the saddle with the hard grace of a man whose occupation and preference kept him on horseback long hours of the day and often into the night. “I don’t reckon so,” he said with the abrupt grin that interrupted the stern contours of his face with the unlikely, rarely seen dimple in his cheek. “I’ve been hearing things about Clyde Dawson that make me think he needs a talking to.”

Sam’s grin disappeared. “Dawson? What’s he up to?”

“Drinking and brawling.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “That makes him no different from half the men in Texas.”

“His mother doesn’t see it that way.”

Sam didn’t appear surprised that Jake’s explanation was so brief. He was used to Jake’s businesslike interpretation of the crime and what the law was disposed to do about it.

The two men rode at a brisk pace on horses that knew the terrain as well as they knew their masters. When Jake’s horse turned off the main street of the district and onto a side thoroughfare that some of the Texas Rangers called Lost Souls Lane, Sam’s horse followed suit.

Sam knew now where they were going, and he sighed. Jake was as tough as any ranger in Texas, but he had a knack for finding the path to a sad story that was on its way to a bad ending.

When Jake pulled his horse to a stop before the Adios Saloon, Sam knew his intuition was correct. Austin had saloons, gambling houses, and brothels to provide various levels of entertainment for its menfolk, but if a fellow found himself at the Adios, he was usually past hope.

Jake took his rifle with him and Sam followed suit. It was unlikely that anyone would rob a ranger’s horse of the rifle that was as much a part of the tack as a saddle, but the Amigos Saloon had a clientele of desperate men with nothing to lose.

There were only a few men doing their early drinking inside. Kelvin, the bartender, glanced up as the rangers came through the swinging doors. A look of alarm crossed his face, and he scanned the stools and tables to identify which unlucky soul had visitors.

Jake didn’t drink during the day. Sam didn’t drink because Jake didn’t drink when he was

working. It was a practice that worked well for both men.

Jake strode to the end of the bar where Clyde Dawson sat, his head drooping over the empty glass in front of him.

“Clyde,” Jake said as he leaned against the bar, “your ma wants to know what you’re up to.”

“I’m a grown man,” Dawson replied with a pronounced attention to his words that revealed he knew he was drunker than the hour of ten o’clock in the morning warranted. “I don’t answer to my mother.”

Jake waited a moment. This wasn’t a situation that justified handcuffs, a gun, or even a fist. Jake used all those weapons easily. But sometimes, words were the weapon of choice, and he had a harder time choosing the right ones. “No, but you answer to me and I’m speaking for her. You get yourself back to your cabin, clean yourself up, and you get back to the Triple J. This isn’t going to bring Myrna back.”

“It’s my fault she died.” Clyde Dawson was only thirty years old, but since his wife’s death, he seemed to have aged a decade. “I wasn’t home and the baby came too soon. If I’d been home and fetched the doc, my wife and my son would be alive.”

“You weren’t home because you were driving cattle to the railroad. You didn’t know the baby was coming early. If you hadn’t been working, you wouldn’t have money to take care of your wife. Coming in here every day doesn’t honor them. It doesn’t bring them back. It shames them. You’re bringing shame to your family.”

Sam, standing behind Jake at the bar, winced at the plainspoken words. But he had to hand it to his partner. Jake didn’t shy away from the hard reckonings; it was one of the reasons for his promotion. Clyde Dawson wasn’t a threat to Austin or a danger. But if he continued on this path, he’d become a problem that one day, a less empathetic lawmaker would have to deal with.

“You don’t understand,” Clyde protested as fat tears began to trickle down his cheeks. “My Myrna was the best thing that ever happened to me and I let her down.”

Jake considered the man at the bar. Then he took the glass of whiskey and emptied its contents over Clyde’s head. “You already smell like the inside of a bottle,” he observed as he raised the man up from the stool and hoisted him over his shoulder, “you might as well bathe in it.”

Clyde protested. Kelvin looked away, avoiding engagement.

Jake half-carried, half-dragged Clyde outside and slung him on top of his horse. “Now, Clyde,” he said to the slumped man in the saddle. “You got three choices. Either I take you to your ma’s place so she can give you a bath because you’re not grown up enough to be a man, or I take you to the cemetery so you can apologize to Myrna’s grave, or I take you to your cabin and you set yourself back on the right path. Which is it?”

“You don’t understand!” Clyde wailed. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the reason someone you loved is dead.”

“The devil I don’t,” Jake said, in a voice that cut like a steel blade. “The devil I don’t.”

***

Jake was leaning against the back of the wagon, trying to catch a breeze that would relieve the heavy, hot air making him sweat. Ma was smiling at him, her white apron filled with the small yellow plants to cure Jake’s fever. There was no breeze to be had, but Ma knew what to do.

Suddenly, dust filled the hot air, and the sound of pounding hooves broke into the oppressive stillness. Ma cried out and the flowers on her apron suddenly turned from yellow to red. His brother, Caleb—the eldest of the Turner boys aged seven—and two years Jake’s senior, forced Jake down into the bed of the covered wagon.

Jake could hear gunshots and groans arising from the clouds of dust stirred up by the hooves. But Caleb wouldn’t let him get up and he couldn’t see anything. He thought he heard Ma, but she wasn’t in the wagon. He heard Pa’s voice, along with the voices of the other men in the wagon train but he couldn’t see Pa, or anyone, and all the while, he just kept getting hotter and hotter and Ma wasn’t there—

“Jake! Wake up!”

Jake Turner slowly opened his eyes to see his brother Caleb, not seven years old but thirty-one, standing over him, an incongruous figure in long underwear, tousled hair and a beard. He had a metal cup of water in his hands. “Drink this.”

Caleb had lit the candle in the bedroom and its oval flame cast off the darkness. As the shadows receded, Jake felt the nightmare diminish as well. But as the dream faded, the memory that had evoked it grew stronger, bringing back the tragic day when Sarah Turner was killed.

“Silas Vance.” Jake breathed the name out as if uttering it was a form of exorcism. But it was a failed effort, because there was never a time when he was not haunted by his mother’s murder.

There was no need to explain to Caleb, but Jake felt that he had to do so anyway. He was a Texas ranger, due to be promoted to captain on the morrow. But here he was, brought down by a nightmare in front of his older brother who had traveled from his ranch to the capital of Texas in Austin to see his brother be honored by the governor.

Caleb sighed as if this were a conversation that had taken place many times before. “You weren’t the one stealing horses and cattle from settlers heading west,” Caleb pointed out reasonably. “Silas Vance was.”

“Vance killed her,” Jake persisted with the mulish stubbornness that defined his dogged pursuit of outlaws and rustlers during his years as a Texas ranger. The only reason he hadn’t hunted Vance down yet was because his whereabouts were unknown.

“Ma wasn’t the only one who got shot. There were others. The Evil One was among us that day, Jake. You know how Pa told it. Now drink this water. You got a big day tomorrow, and here I am, all the way from the ranch to the big city to see you become a captain of the Texas rangers.”

Caleb’s voice, with its rolling Texas cadence, was soothing. He had Pa’s way of speaking, expressing each word as if he’d given every syllable considerable thought. It was Pa’s way, and Caleb was much like their father had been, but Jake found it easier to do something than talk about it. He hadn’t become a ranger to talk his way out of a gunfight.

Even though Jake had been a Texas ranger since he was old enough to leave home, he obeyed his older brother out of habit and drank. “It wasn’t God who took Ma to heaven too soon,” he answered with brutal candor. “I’ll be happy to return the favor and send Vance where he belongs, but I don’t reckon he’ll need angel wings where he’s headed. It’s the only way I can get him out my head. I don’t even know where he is and he never leaves my side.”

“You know what Pa said. Leave Silas Vance to heaven.”

Jake drained the cup of its water but didn’t answer. He’d made it clear to his brother that he didn’t plan on waiting for divine justice to take care of Silas Vance. Jake recognized his duty to see that justice was done in the territory he served as a Texas ranger.

But if the opportunity to bring retribution to Silas Vance ever arose, the silver star on Jake’s chest and the Winchester 1873 in his hand would see to it that Vance got a taste of earthly justice before St. Peter had a chance to weigh in on the verdict.

***

Jake stood tall as the silver star was pinned to his chest. He saw Caleb sitting among the other family members in the audience, all of them beaming proudly at their loved ones for the achievement taking place in front of them. The Texas governor was lavish in his praise of the men who brought the law to the widespread jurisdiction of the state.

“We got outlaws,” the governor intoned. “We got cattle rustlers, we got card cheats and gunfighters and all manner of ne’er do wells.” The governor’s stern face relaxed and a smile parted his lips beneath the thick white mustache. “But we got the Texas rangers and they don’t stampede!”

***

“Shoot, Jake, I thought you’d at least put some bear grease in your hair on an important day like this,” Caleb said as the tousle-haired captain of the Texas rangers joined his brother at the punch bowl. “Ma, she never could get a comb to tame your hair. I recollect how she’d fret so on Sundays, back in Ohio, trying to get you ready for church.”

It was true that Jake had been the wildest of the three Turner boys, but—to his way of thinking—a man had to know how to beat the devil at his own game with his own weapons. His affection for his merry-hearted mother and his patient and forgiving father was genuine. Some were meant to pray their way through trials and tribulations. Jake used other means, and prayer didn’t bring a criminal to justice.

He and Caleb were the only ones left now. The middle brother, Hank, had been taken by smallpox four years ago, two years before Pa’s death.

“They’d be proud of you, Jake.”

“Maybe.”

As if he perceived what his brother was thinking, Caleb went on, “You go on to be the best Texas ranger, you know how to be. But don’t let that star lead you anyplace the good book won’t go with you. You remember Pa’s words. ‘Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’”

“Romans Chapter Twelve, Verse Nineteen,” Jake finished. He knew the verse well. That didn’t mean he agreed with it.

Caleb nodded. “Pa taught us all right. Don’t let him down.”

“I won’t,” Jake said, slightly on edge because there were times when he felt like he was the only one who hadn’t forgotten the injustice of Sarah Turner’s death. Maybe it was his reaction to her murder that had turned him into a lawman.

Caleb’s eyes were the same dark blue color as Jake’s. But they were so different in appearance, for where Caleb’s eyes were a smooth, serene pool, Jake’s were a storm at sea. Caleb regarded his brother closely.

“I lost one brother,” he said, “I don’t want to lose the only one I got left. You got a job to do, and you do it. But don’t be reckless, don’t be foolhardy, and don’t seek vengeance. There’s already two Turner men buried on Turner ground. Don’t be in a hurry to be the next one gone.”

It was natural, Jake supposed, for Caleb to count the dead by gravestones. But it was different for Jake. He brought the criminals to their death because it was his job, and he counted the dead by the nooses around their necks.

Chapter One

Austin, Texas

Summer, 1882

Captain Jake Turner thrust his Winchester 1873 into the scabbard of his saddle. His pistol was cross-holstered at his waist. One knife was sheathed at his belt and a second was concealed inside his boot.

Deputy Samuel Carter was similarly outfitted. He shook his head as he followed Jake’s example and mounted his horse.

“I kinda thought we’d be doing a little more shooting here now that you got promoted,” Sam remarked as the two men spurred their horses into a brisk canter along the road that would lead them into the city. “I didn’t think we’d be answering a call for help from a grocery store owner.”

“Stealing from a store is a crime, just like cattle rustling and bank robbing,” Jake answered philosophically. “Now that the railroad is here, we’ll be getting sidewinders from both coasts, and from Santa Fe and Mexico City. We’ll enjoy a humble grocery store theft until worse comes our way.”

Jake was just as impatient as Sam, but his choice of quarry was one man and until the opportunity to punish Silas Vance came along, Jake was content to serve the needs of Texans.

Austin was proud of its long history which had begun before Texas became a state. Austin had started out as a small town where a blend of Mexicans, natives, and Americans had found homes and a way of life that accommodated their differences.

But the railroads were bringing in a different breed, which was why Jake, his deputy Sam Carter, and the five other men in their unit had been added to the rangers already protecting Austin.

He and Sam were responding to the grocer’s request for help while the other men in his unit went on patrol throughout the town and the surrounding area.

Visibility was key; folks with ill intent were less likely to act on their impulses, Jake had learned, if they knew that the well-armed men on fleet horses would back up their silver stars with gunpowder.

Jose Alvaraz was standing outside his store when the rangers arrived. In front of his store window was a tempting display of fresh produce. If the array had at one time been symmetrical and attractive, it was now apparent that either the customers had been unusually rowdy in their quest for the juiciest peaches and the plumpest tomatoes, or someone had pillaged the fruits and vegetables.

“You see this?” Jose pointed to the boardwalk, where bruised and crushed berries stained the wood. “They come through, they have their sacos, they grab what they want, they laugh when they take my peaches and laugh when some fall to the ground as the thieves run away. Who pays me for stolen peaches, eh? Who pays me for the tomatoes that I cannot sell? My wife, my children, they pick the fruit, the vegetables, I sell them. Who gives them back the hours they spend—?”

“Senor Alvarez,” Jake gently interrupted the irate grocer, “did you see the ones who did this?”

“See? How can I see when I am inside, taking care of my customers?” the storekeeper demanded. “How many eyes do you think I have?”

“Senor Alvarez, do you have any suspicions about who might have done this?” Jake pressed. “It seems like the sort of crime that a youngster might pull as a prank.”

“Prank? A prank? Stolen strawberries, that is a prank? Look, look here,” he gestured at the squashed fruit on the wooden boardwalk creating a colorful palette where flies were already buzzing greedily at the buffet.

“No, sir, I don’t think it’s a prank,” Jake assured him.

“You have the best tomatoes in all of Austin,” Sam praised the grocer. “We fried some up last night to eat with our beans. We aim to catch whoever did this, Senior Alvarez, we surely do. But we can’t arrest everyone we see. We have to have something to arrest them for. So, did you see anything at all? It’s summer. The young ones aren’t in school, but they should be home helping with chores. Now, maybe you know of some young folks who are idle when they shouldn’t be?”

Senior Alvarez brightened, then unleashed a barrage of Spanish which allowed him to express his thoughts unhampered by English.

Jake knew Spanish and he listened closely. “I see,” he said. “I’ll go up to their cabin and I’ll find out more about how this boy spent his day. Deputy Carter here, he’ll stand guard over your fine produce. I warn you, though,” Jake said with a smile, “he’s mighty fond of those tomatoes of yours. If any are missing, I think we know the culprit.”

Both Sam and the storekeeper looked startled, Sam declaring his innocence vehemently.

Jake left them and mounted Salome, his spirited piebald mare, and headed north out of town, where there was a settlement of transient citizens who had come west on their way to find wealth in the California gold mines but hadn’t made it out of Texas.

He stopped at the first house at the end of a street made up of shacks and sheds, none of which were in very good condition. Jake knew that, from behind the broken windows of the homes, eyes were watching him. He tethered Salome to a tree branch, took up his rifle, and walked purposefully to the front door which was off its hinges and slightly ajar.

He knocked. No one answered.

“Jake Turner, Texas ranger,” he called out in a voice that could have been heard as far as the Franklin Mountains in the distance. “Open up, or I’ll have to kick the door in.”

The door slowly opened and a rawboned woman with upswept red hair and a face covered with freckles answered. She had a gun in her hand.

“Don’t shoot, ma’am,” Jake said, his rifle at his side but not raised. “You got a boy, right?”

“Why you asking?”

“I got my reasons, but first things first. You find me a hammer and nails, and I’ll show your lad how to fix this door so it shuts right. A loose door like this, you’re likely to have all kinds of critters coming through your home at all hours of the night.”

A suspicious but hopeful look altered the angular contours of the woman’s face. “You’ll fix my door?”

“No, I’ll teach your son to fix it. Then he and I will have a little talk about the eighth commandment and Senor Alvarez’s fine strawberries.”

***

It didn’t take a Winchester ’73 or a Colt Peacemaker revolver to solve the theft of Senor Alvarez’s fruits and vegetables, and by the time Mrs. Guerney’s door was fixed, she’d told her son that Captain Turner would be taking him back into town so he could make things right with the grocer.

Laslo Guerney was a stringy twelve-year-old whose initial sullenness evaporated after he discovered that he was able to fix the door to his mother’s cabin with Jake’s help. He rode in front of Jake astride Salome, the boy’s dirty bare feet dangling against the horse as he told Jake about his family’s circumstances.

The father was off in El Paso, working in a mine and hadn’t been heard from lately. A short discussion at the store resulted in Senor Alvarez, promoted by Jake, offering to pay Laslo in produce if the boy would show up every day, first thing in the morning, to help put out the fruit and vegetables for the day’s selling.

The Texas rangers had just mounted their horses when Jake heard his name called. He turned in his saddle to see Wes Billing running toward them, a piece of paper in his hand.

“Captain!” Wes called. “I’m glad I caught you. Zeke said he’d seen you riding into town.”

Wes Billing was the telegraph operator in Austin and Jake often delivered messages from the telegraph office to the ranger base.

Jake dismounted. “Looks like you got something for me,” he said, noticing the piece of paper fluttering in Wes’s hand.

“Yes, sir, Captain,” the telegraph operator said. “It’s from El Paso. The rangers there need your help.”

It was inevitable that the man who operated the telegraph would know the news before the person for whom it was intended, but there was no way to bypass Wes. Jake took the paper.

“Thanks, Wes, me and Sam will have a look at this.”

Once he and Sam were out of view, Jake pulled on the reins and Salome came to a stop.

“Who wants us in El Paso?” Sam asked, reining in his own horse.

Jake scanned the message. “Rangers in El Paso,” he said. “Something to do with a mine. I reckon we’d better head back to base and pack up. I don’t know what’s ahead, but I don’t reckon we’ll be back in time for supper.”