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and his condition. Captain Ferguson might not have known anything more than what he had telegraphed, but that was enough to send Nathan to Fort Worth. Assuredly, Jennings would be in no condition to go after his bushwhackers, but that wouldn’t stop Nathan Stone. Riding steady, resting his horses hourly, he could reach Fort Worth—three hundred and eighty miles distant—within six days. He only hoped, if the ranger’s condition was critical, that he would live until Nathan could talk to him, hopefully to learn who had done the shooting.

Fort Worth, Texas. June 16, 1873
    â€œHe’s been here two weeks,” Captain Ferguson said. “He was brought here because we have a post surgeon. He was hit four times and two of the slugs were lodged near the spine. Our medic, Lieutenant Carter, successfully removed the lead.”
    â€œBut he still can’t move,” said Nathan.
    â€œNo,” Ferguson replied.
    â€œI’m obliged for what you’ve done, Captain,” said Nathan. “I’d like to talk to him, if I may.”
    â€œYou’ll find him at the post hospital,” Captain Ferguson said. “Speak to Lieutenant Carter first.”
    Fort Worth was one of the few frontier outposts with a full-fledged hospital, and it was obvious why Captain Jennings had been brought here. Lieutenant Carter proved to be a very blunt young man.
    â€œHis condition is still serious,” said Carter. “He lost a lot of blood and he’s still very weak. He’s eating poorly, if at all. He just doesn’t seem to care. Don’t stay too long.”
    When Nathan stepped into the room, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Jennings lay silent, his eyes closed. His body seemed to have shrunk, graying his hair, transforming him into an old man.
    â€œCap?” Nathan said softly. “Captain Jennings.”
    â€œNathan,” said Jennings. “Nathan Stone. I’d take your hand if I could. But that’s just one of ... many things I can no longer do.”
    The lump in Nathan’s throat felt half the size of Texas as he moved a chair near the old ranger’s bed. Swallowing hard, he sat down. When he finally trusted himself to speak, he did.
    â€œWho did it, Cap?”
    â€œI can’t truthfully say,” Jennings replied, “but I was trailing the Horrells and Clint Barkley. I rode into that ambush like a damn tenderfoot.”
    â€œYou have every reason to believe it was the Horrells, then.”
    â€œYes,” said Jennings, “but I have no proof. It happened near Georgetown. A rancher heard the shots, found me, and hauled me to town in his wagon. The doc patched me up and had me brought here. The doc here—Lieutenant Carter-dug out the lead, but I’m hurt in two places near the spine. He says my chances are fifty-fifty. I may heal in time, and then I may be crippled for life. Just like them skunk-striped Horrells, leavin’ just enough life in me so’s I ain’t worth a damn to nobody.”
    â€œYou haven’t had time to heal, Cap,” Nathan said. “Did anybody trail the varmints?”
    â€œNo,” said Jennings. “They still got no sheriff at Georgetown, and by the time the sheriff from Lampasas rode over there, the trail had been rained out. Later, when I finally could talk a little, Captain Ferguson telegraphed the ranger outpost in Austin. I asked for a man to be sent to the Horrell ranches, and they’re deserted. They’ve quit the territory, taking Clint Barkley with them, I reckon.”
    â€œThey gunned down three lawmen at Lampasas,” said Nathan, “and now you. What does it take for the state of Texas to put a bounty on their heads?”
    â€œI’m through wondering what the state of Texas will or won’t do,” Jennings replied. “I have been officially reprimanded by the governor for trailing the Horrells without authorization from the state, and after a review,