TITLE: A Ranger's First Job By Chuck Myers 07/20/06 |
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“A Ranger’s First Job”
by C. D. Myers
Copyright 2006
They stood by the small grave and wondered what had happened. This small piece of ground was never intended to be the final resting place for their newborn. If rain had come, if grasshoppers had not ... but never a grave.
It seemed like it was only yesterday that they were riding the wagon, looking for a whole new life.
The year was 1874 and they had left their home in the east because of the promise of free land provided through the new Homestead Act. They had filed for sixty acres of land on the Middle Loup River in Valley County, Nebraska. Father had come out here first and established the claim, and they were to join him the following fall.
“The next stop is ours.” Father had shaken each child awake in turn. As he turned to his young wife he went on. “Grand Island is coming up, and you and the children will be able to get a hot meal and a bath. We’ll get off the train there.”
“Is that where we will purchase the wagon?” Sam’s young wife was obviously a little anxious.
“Wagon, supplies, horses; we’ll get them all in Grand Island.”
“Papa, how far to our house?” this was his young son asking that most common of childhood questions.
“It will be several days before we are home.”
They had gotten off the train, purchased their wagon, and headed for the small town of Loup City just days later. Fighting through a snow storm, stranded in the middle of nowhere for a night, and being forced to divide the family (mother and children getting a ride into town with another homesteader, and dad and eldest son staying with the wagon).
For months they had fought the elements and the weather getting their first crop in. It had come up well, and they had enjoyed the beauty of the new growth. The young corn quickly covered the ground with that most beautiful of green tones.
“If this continues we will have enough of a crop to buy some cattle, start on the house, and maybe even buy some trees.” Papa had said this with a gleam in his eye at supper one night. They had been living in the sod cabin for months, and each member of the family was looking forward to the ‘real’ house.
“Things are that good?” Mama had looked deeply into his eyes as if trying to tell if Sam was kidding.
“Honey, it should be a great crop.” he had ended the conversation with excitement.
A week later everything had changed. The children had been playing in the yard when they came screaming into the house.
“Mama,” Sadie, the oldest, was yelling the loudest, “a storm is coming. There’s a dark...”
“It’s the end of the world!” Mont seemed to be born for drama.
Mama rushed outside, and even as she did she could tell this was no normal storm. “Sam! SAM!”
Sam was already headed back to the house, having seen the cloud from the southeastern field. He had been planting alfalfa in the hopes of having some feed for the cattle he was hoping to purchase. “Get everyone in the house. It’s grasshoppers.”
Sarah wondered why Sam was so worried about some small bugs, but something about that cloud started her running toward the house. “Hurry, children, get in the house.”
Even as she turned back toward the door the cloud had turned into a moving, buzzing, mass. There were trees along the river southwest of the house, and the huge army of grasshoppers was descending on them. Her hands flew to her breast and she raised a prayer of thanksgiving as she realized that they would be fine, now that the tiny beasts had found food.
She did not know grasshoppers.
The cloud did not even seem to slow as the bugs that did not find green leaves continued their destructive journey toward their house.
“Get inside.” Sam was standing next to her. “I have to put the horses away.”
She turned the handle of the door and moved into the house. Ten minutes later Sam opened the door and moved quickly through. Even so, dozens of the small hopping critters followed him through the door.
“Children,” Sarah yelled, “kill the grasshoppers.”
They went to sleep, or tried to, with the sound of scratching and scraping from every flat - solid - surface. Grasshoppers covered the windows so that they could not see out.
“I wish we had the glass windows in.” Sarah commented to Sam. “They would not be able to grip the glass.”
“I wish that too.” Sam had gone over to one of the windows and slapped the screen. In the opening created in the insects he looked out on a sea of moving black creatures. He turned back to the family without a word.
Three days later the grasshoppers had departed - because there was no food left. The family walked out onto a scene very similar to that following a battle. The corn was gone, stripped to a stalk only inches above the ground. The ground was nearly bare, with the waving Indian grass simply nubbins on the hillside. The wonderful crop they had looked forward to was a thing of the past now.
A month later the alfalfa had failed to sprout as there had been not so much as a drop of rain since the grasshoppers had moved on. The native grass that was to be used for pasture in the case of emergency was now a thing of the past.
* * *
Two months after that the children were surprised to be ushered out of the house.
“Joseph, our nearest neighbor, is going to take you home for a while.” Sam had told the children as they sat at breakfast.
“But we don’t want to go.” Mont shook his head and ran for his parent’s bedroom.
“Mont, come here!” Sam’s voice left no room for debate and Mont stopped in his tracks. “You will come back soon.”
“Why do we have to go, papa?” Sadie had asked.
“Your mother is sick.” Sam had answered evasively.
The children spent the next three days at the Matthews’ house. The Matthews family was kind to them even though they were scared, but the three days seemed to take forever. Finally, papa had come back for the kids, and they had walked home together.
“Is mama all right?” Mont asked.
“She’ll be fine.”
“Is she all better?” Sadie had not been willing to leave the issue alone.
“Yes.” Sam said slowly, “but we’ll need to help with chores and meals for a while. Mama’s pretty weak.”
“What was wrong with her?” Mont asked again.
“You’ll see.” Sam had ended to conversation by telling the children to keep quiet as they came up to the house.
The next day the family stood around the open grave as their newborn brother was lowered into the ground. Sarah lay in the back of the wagon, too weak to stand for the ceremony.
Garren Rader, Texas Ranger, rode upon this heart-breaking scene with a totally different purpose. A week before, he had received a message at his desk in Dallas, Texas. The telegram had come to him as the youngest member of the Ranger force.
“We need help in Valley County, Nebraska. Just last week a neighbor of ours was killed after he refused to give some strangers his horse. The men have stayed around, and we are unsure of what to do. Please send an officer to help with this problem if at all possible.”
The telegram had been signed by a Sam Hawthorne, a name totally unknown in the Dallas office.
“Does anyone know how we got this message?” Garren asked Captain Smith. “And where in the world is Valley County, Nebraska?”
“The message actually came from a local sheriff.” Captain looked over Garren’s shoulder. “He forwarded it to us in the hopes that we might be able to help out.”
“And I’m the one to ‘help out’, is that what I’m hearing?”
“Are you up to it?”
“I’ll do my best.”
With those words echoing in his ears, Garren had ridden up to a low soddie the day before. He had been told that the Hawthorne’s lived over the hill to the west, but the neighbor was not sure what he would find.
“They’ve had a rough time of it here lately.” the bushy, soft spoken farmer had shown a remarkable interest and concern in the situation.
“What do you mean?” Garren was beginning to wonder if this meeting had been divinely orchestrated.
“Sam sent the kids over here a few days ago. Said his wife was in the mothering way. He came back the day before yesterday and said the baby had died. It’s been a tough year in a number of ways for us out here, but Sam has sure gotten more than his fair share.” this man seemed inclined to talk. There was not another man alive any more capable of getting information out of a talkative informant than Garren Rader; Irishman, easy-going, and openly friendly.
“That’s tough all right.” Garren drew the man into more conversation. “This land looks as though it would take a real man to make it pay.”
“You’re exactly right, lad. By the way, the name’s Matthews ... Joseph Matthews. Sam is our closest neighbor ... what’s your reason for riding this way?”
“I got a message saying you had some bad men stirring up trouble.” Garren took his badge from his pocket and held it for the man to see.
“That’s one of those things that Sam’s struggled with these past few months.”
“What do you mean?” Garren sensed that Joseph could be a big help.
“Several months ago some rough men started coming into the area. We have been looking at starting a school, and it’s been a wee bit divisive - to say the least.”
“That wouldn’t be the first time.” Garren wanted to make sure this man kept talking. “But what does that have to do with my message?”
“The man that brought in those men was another neighbor of ours, George McMillan. He wanted control of the whole school situation, so he brought in men that would do what he demanded.”
“And...” Garren was trying not to sound too anxious, but it wasn’t easy.
“After the matter was decided, those men stayed around.” Joseph was trying to choose his words with care. “It seems as though George felt that he needed to ... ah ... impress those men. He picked a fight with Sam and even took a shot at him as Sam was leaving the school meeting. Sam had him arrested for assault and battery with an intent to kill. George ended up in jail.”
“So he’s not the man I’m after.”
“No,” Joseph said, “but one of those men murdered a man a few weeks later. As far’s we know, he’s still around. Sam might know more.”
That was everything Garren knew as he stood to the side waiting for the funeral to end. He looked at the haggard face of Sam Hawthorne, and then moved over to where the new mother, and grieving parent, was trying to sit up so she could see and hear.
“Ma’am,” he said as he walked up to the side of the wagon, “is there anything I can do to help you out? Are you comfortable?”
“Mister,” she turned and looked into his eyes, “that grave contains my newborn son. I would sure like to hear the words being said over him.”
“I’m your man.” Garren reached into the wagon and easily picked up the petite, underfed woman. “Have you had anything to eat lately?”
“I’ve been too weak. It’s all right, I’ll bounce back quick.” Garren was not so sure as he could feel the tense body, almost feel the anguish as Sarah Hawthorne tried to hear the words that were being said.
“You hide Your face, they are troubled;
You take away their breath, they die and return to their dust.
You send forth Your Spirit, they are created;
And You renew the face of the earth.
May the glory of the Lord endure forever;
May the Lord rejoice in His works.”
The pastor was just finishing up the service as he carried Sarah up to the edges of the small crowd. Sam finally saw them and moved over.
“Honey,” he immediately turned his attention to his wife, “you should be in the wagon.”
“And miss the service of my dead son?”
“But you’re too weak.”
“This strong man carried me up here like it was nothing.” Sarah turned and looked at Garren again. “I don’t even know your name, sir.”
“Garren Rader, Texas Ranger.”
Sam immediately turned his attention away from his wife, “You’re the one Dallas sent to us?”
“That would be me.” Garren allowed the smallest smile to cross his lips. “But I am sorry I have come at such a hard time.”
“We’re so glad you’re here.” Sam held out his hand and then withdrew it as he realized that Garren could not shake hands while holding his wife. “I’m sorry, let’s get Sarah back to the wagon.”
The rest of the crowd was slowly dispersing, and the pastor walked up to them as they got back to the wagon.
“If there’s anything I can do...” he had placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Thank you, pastor.” Sam turned and shook hands. “We’ll be fine. This man is a Texas Ranger. I’m sure he’ll be able to help us.”
“I surely do hope so. He’s got a job to do.” the pastor moved off to talk to some of the crowd as they filed away from the freshly turned soil.
Garren suddenly wished, for one of the few times in his life, that he was more knowledgeable. He was finding himself wishing he knew more, had someone to back him up. He could not have said why he felt this way, he assumed it was because of the pastor’s words.
“...we’re sure that the man is still in the area.” Sam was talking to him and he was drawn back to the present.
“I’m sorry,” he was embarrassed, “I was just thinking. What did you say?”
“The man that murdered Mike is still in the area. We’re sure of it.”
“How do you know that?” Garren couldn’t understand why Sam was so sure.
“Well,” Sam thought for a moment, “for one thing, nobody has seen him leave. And we’ve all been keeping an eye out.”
“But there’s lots of room to leave undetected.” Garren was not convinced.
“There’s also the fact that the man’s personal articles are all still in his house.” Sarah had made this comment.
“But the main reason I am so sure,” Sam said, “is that these men seem to feel that they are untouchable. None of us has the ability to take on this man with a gun, and everyone knows that Sheriff Gooden cannot come across the county line.”
“How about the soldiers at the fort?”
“We contacted them.” Sam had obviously tried to do everything he could think of to do. “Captain Ord said that they had to keep the soldiers close because of the threat of Indian attack right now.”
“All right,” Garren was convinced, “I had to ask. Is there a hotel where I can stay?”
“You’ll stay at our place.” Sam said quickly.
“I ... I couldn’t do that ... I’ll just ---”
“Mister Rader,” Sarah spoke up again, “you will stay at our house.”
Garren was ready to dismiss the invitation with a quick “no thank you” until he saw Sarah looking him right in the eye. “I’ll be glad to stay with you.” was his answer instead.
* * *
The next day Garren began the hardest part of his job, the investigation. He enjoyed things much more when he knew the ‘bad guy’, had him in sight, and could wade in with fists or guns. He realized that the investigative part of the job was a large part, he just wished he could have someone else do that for him. He also realized how much he had to learn in that area. He had been told that the Ranger who was so good at this was a man named Ross Peters, but they had not yet met.
He went first of all to the house where the murderer had stayed. Sam had said that they had looked it over and found nothing, but Garren had received a lot of training that the normal person did not receive.
He stood in the doorway for several minutes and simply looked over the dwelling. The building was what was commonly referred to as a dug-out. It had been built into the side of a hill beside the river, and the back wall was the hill itself.
There was a simple wood table sitting in the center of the room, with one chair. A bed was built into the wall along the left side, and the fireplace occupied the other wall. The walls were made of relatively small logs, and the shelves around the fireplace were very rough - at best.
Garren’s first impression was that Sam had been right, there simply was no place in which something could be hidden. There was nothing suspicious about anything he could see. He was feeling that there was not much to do here.
"Wait a minute." Garren said to himself. "This is exactly what my training has been about. I am expected to see things, to look in places, that others would not. Get busy, and find out if you’re a legitimate Ranger or not."
The first thing he did was pick up a heavy stick lying among the rubble on the floor.
“He sure wasn’t a tidy housekeeper.” Garren smiled, realizing he was talking to himself. "That’s one thing I’ve learned since I came west. A horse or an empty room, they’re good places to talk out loud to yourself."
With his stick, Garren began tapping the walls. He was listening for a hollow sound, an empty place. The tapping took two hours, and turned up nothing!
Frustrated, Garren sat down on the bed and wondered what to do next. From the bed he had a whole different perspective. From the bed he could see the ridge line of the roof. From here he could see the outer wall that could not be seen from the door.
“It’s there,” Garren spoke out loud once again, but this time didn’t even notice, “There’s a natural compartment up next to the roof.”
He grabbed the chair and set it inside the door. Climbing onto the seat he was able to reach the gap he was looking for. Sure enough, tucked into that gap was a sheet of paper.
Slowly he pulled the paper out of the hole. And even as he did so he realized that there were other sheets. In five minutes he had five sheets of paper sitting on the table before him. Each one had been carefully folded. Each one was written by the same hand. And each one was covered with writing.
There was no light in the room that he could see, and he realized how late it was when he had to hold his eyes only inches from the sheets - and was still struggling to see what was written. He finally had to admit that things would have to wait till morning.
He lay on the bed, in the dark, and though over what he had read. The writer had begun the conversation with the man - his name was Roger - by asking him to come to Valley County, Nebraska. He had mentioned what Garren already knew, that there was a war going on over a school issue. The letter had mentioned that he needed people without a problem voting for something they had no tie to. It had asked if the reader was willing to vote for the school issue by simply being told to vote “nay” or “yea”.
"The writer has got to be George McMillan." Garren thought.
The next two letters were further correspondence between Roger and George, giving directions on how to handle the upcoming vote. There was nothing new, but it was a further corroboration of complacency in the murder.
The murder was set out in the fourth letter. Mike Mortensen had taken a very vocal tack in his opposition to what McMillan wanted to do, and he had agreed to give Roger five hundred dollars when the deed was done.
"There’s no doubt that Roger is guilty, and these letters are enough proof to make the man dead." Garren concluded his thoughts.
The fifth letter was the most important one to Garren, he just didn’t know how. It was a map - of that he was sure. There were a number of fairly specific looking trees, obviously drawn to set them apart. If he could figure out where the map started at - it looked to be another dug-out - he should be able to follow the trail. He somehow felt that this was a map to his hiding place. The words “you’ll be safe here” were a real give-away.
Suddenly Garren sat straight up in bed. The dugout could very possibly be this very building. He could be within several hundred feet of the man right now. But could he follow the man in the dark? Could he figure out the last spot on the map? The hiding place appeared to be a tire with an arrow through it!
Garren lay back down again and continued to think. A tire? A tube? Something hollow? Of course, a hollow log ... hollow tree? Would a man actually hide for - what had it been - a week - in a tree? It was almost unbelievable to think that a man would hide out in a hollow tree, rather than try to escape an area filled with people who were looking for him.
It was just about that time that he fell asleep, and when he awoke the sun was flooding through the empty spot that functioned as a window. The room looked even worse in the morning light. Garren suddenly spoke into the empty air once again, "Of course he was willing to hide in a tree, it was cleaner and more comfortable than this room."
An hour later Roger was in custody. He had still been in the hollow tree and was so cold, tired, and hungry that Garren hardly had to do anything in arresting him. The man was placed on a horse and headed back to Grand Island, but not before stopping by the Hawthorne house.
“I want to thank you for your hospitality,” Garren said to Sarah and Sam, “and your faith in our agency.”
“Thank you for coming.” Sam replied.
“May I say one more thing before I leave?” Garren seemed unsure of how to precede - a first in his life. “I suppose by now you are convinced that you need to give up this silly dream. But I want you to know that you make this country what it is. I admire your strength, your optimism, and your faith. Please believe that you are what makes this new nation go - much more than us professional peace keepers and law enforcement people ever could.”
Hours later, Garren was well on his way to Grand Island, but Sam continued to think about what had been said. He was thinking of going back home, he had been considering give it all up. But what would become of the farm, what would become of the community? “I’m staying right where I am. I’m what makes this new country work.”
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