the door caused Carter’s attention to be drawn there again. The dandy was still alive, still trying to crawl
further into the room.
Carter felt the sliding tug of his brother as Lowell dropped to his knees, his breath labored.
“Carter, what’s happened to me?” His eyes were searching those of his sibling for an answer.
“Come on, little brother. We’ve got to get the hell out of here!” Carter, using his full strength, lifted Lowell to his feet.
When he did so, he felt the warm stickiness of Lowell’s life blood spill over his hands.
Carter stared into the ashen face of his only kin and wondered if he would even make it out of the room alive. With the mighty
bulk of one arm, he practically carried the wounded man toward the doorway.
The dandy had gotten as far as balancing himself on his hands and knees. Carter paused long enoughto pat the pockets of the man’s jacket and vest. Feeling a lump, he reached into a vest pocked and retrieved a handful of
paper money.
The dandy’s eyes cowered within his pained face.
As a final angry gesture, Carter pushed the man over with his boot. “I guess your robbing days are over,” he said, continuing
to carry Lowell toward the doorway.
It was a chore trying to get the wounded brother down the rickety steps. Lowell’s legs had lost their steadiness.
By the time they had made the courtyard and come through the iron gate, a crowd had gathered in front of the building, their
interest drawn by the sound of gunfire.
Carter, half-carrying his wounded brother like a scarecrow, pushed his way through the on-lookers. Someone said: “Look, that
fellow’s bleeding like a stuck hog!”
And it was true. Lowell’s blood was splattering on the wet cobblestones in jagged, crimson patterns.
They reached the horses, and, with one great effort, Carter flung the wounded brother into the saddle.
“Hold on tight, Lowell.”
“It feels like my back is set afire,” groaned Lowell as he slumped forward in the saddle, feeling the horn press into his
gut.
Carter made his own saddle and, gripping the reins of Lowell’s horse in one hand, he drove his heels into the flanks of the
dun, spiriting the powerful animal into a dead run.
Lowell’s hat went flying; he could feel the warm fluid of blood draining down his spine, soaking histrousers. A numbness was setting in. He felt the wind against his fevered face. The yellow flames of the gas lights suddenly
disappeared behind them and into the darkness they rode.
Chapter Seven
Tascosa, Texas
Royal Curtiss was busy staining the front of his shirt with the grease drippings from a fried chicken; a pile of gristly bones
lay piled on a plate in front of him. Next to that, a stein of beer. The leg of the chicken was the last of it, a big fryer
that Maybelle had delivered him for his lunch.
He was working down into the double bone of the chicken leg with his teeth when the door to his office rattled open.
“You City Marshal Curtiss?” asked the big man standing in the frame of the door. Wind blew in behind him and upset a stack
of papers on the chicken eater’s desk.
“You mind closing that?” said the man over a mouthful of bone, his lips and chin greasy.
Henry Dollar closed the door behind him and stepped farther into the room. What he saw was the slovenly man sitting behind
his desk, a plate of chicken bones, and a pair of protruding, suspicious eyes.
“Yeah, I’m the city marshal,” said the chicken eater. “Who’s asking?”
“Name’s Henry Dollar, Texas Ranger.”
“Didn’t know there was any rangers in the area,” said the man behind the desk, teasing the last sprig of meat from the chicken
leg and then dropping it on top of the others.
Henry watched as the man wiped his greasy fingers on the cracked leather vest he wore. A brass badge was pinned to the vest.
“I got word that there was some trouble up around here,” said Henry, not liking the man all that much. “Was over in
further into the room.
Carter felt the sliding tug of his brother as Lowell dropped to his knees, his breath labored.
“Carter, what’s happened to me?” His eyes were searching those of his sibling for an answer.
“Come on, little brother. We’ve got to get the hell out of here!” Carter, using his full strength, lifted Lowell to his feet.
When he did so, he felt the warm stickiness of Lowell’s life blood spill over his hands.
Carter stared into the ashen face of his only kin and wondered if he would even make it out of the room alive. With the mighty
bulk of one arm, he practically carried the wounded man toward the doorway.
The dandy had gotten as far as balancing himself on his hands and knees. Carter paused long enoughto pat the pockets of the man’s jacket and vest. Feeling a lump, he reached into a vest pocked and retrieved a handful of
paper money.
The dandy’s eyes cowered within his pained face.
As a final angry gesture, Carter pushed the man over with his boot. “I guess your robbing days are over,” he said, continuing
to carry Lowell toward the doorway.
It was a chore trying to get the wounded brother down the rickety steps. Lowell’s legs had lost their steadiness.
By the time they had made the courtyard and come through the iron gate, a crowd had gathered in front of the building, their
interest drawn by the sound of gunfire.
Carter, half-carrying his wounded brother like a scarecrow, pushed his way through the on-lookers. Someone said: “Look, that
fellow’s bleeding like a stuck hog!”
And it was true. Lowell’s blood was splattering on the wet cobblestones in jagged, crimson patterns.
They reached the horses, and, with one great effort, Carter flung the wounded brother into the saddle.
“Hold on tight, Lowell.”
“It feels like my back is set afire,” groaned Lowell as he slumped forward in the saddle, feeling the horn press into his
gut.
Carter made his own saddle and, gripping the reins of Lowell’s horse in one hand, he drove his heels into the flanks of the
dun, spiriting the powerful animal into a dead run.
Lowell’s hat went flying; he could feel the warm fluid of blood draining down his spine, soaking histrousers. A numbness was setting in. He felt the wind against his fevered face. The yellow flames of the gas lights suddenly
disappeared behind them and into the darkness they rode.
Chapter Seven
Tascosa, Texas
Royal Curtiss was busy staining the front of his shirt with the grease drippings from a fried chicken; a pile of gristly bones
lay piled on a plate in front of him. Next to that, a stein of beer. The leg of the chicken was the last of it, a big fryer
that Maybelle had delivered him for his lunch.
He was working down into the double bone of the chicken leg with his teeth when the door to his office rattled open.
“You City Marshal Curtiss?” asked the big man standing in the frame of the door. Wind blew in behind him and upset a stack
of papers on the chicken eater’s desk.
“You mind closing that?” said the man over a mouthful of bone, his lips and chin greasy.
Henry Dollar closed the door behind him and stepped farther into the room. What he saw was the slovenly man sitting behind
his desk, a plate of chicken bones, and a pair of protruding, suspicious eyes.
“Yeah, I’m the city marshal,” said the chicken eater. “Who’s asking?”
“Name’s Henry Dollar, Texas Ranger.”
“Didn’t know there was any rangers in the area,” said the man behind the desk, teasing the last sprig of meat from the chicken
leg and then dropping it on top of the others.
Henry watched as the man wiped his greasy fingers on the cracked leather vest he wore. A brass badge was pinned to the vest.
“I got word that there was some trouble up around here,” said Henry, not liking the man all that much. “Was over in
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