The Toughest Ranger

 

He did not know how far he went as his legs were numb and walking, mechanical. But when he looked up he was on the outskirts of a small pueblo. The biggest building in it was a fort-like ’dobe structure which presented an arched gate to the road. There was a sign about that gate: “THE ARIZONA RANGERS.”

 

Petey stopped, hardly seeing the sign at all. In this town, he knew, he could swab out a bar for food. He could clean up a stable. . . .

 

But Pat had to have shoes and oats and a few weeks’ rest.

 

He turned and looked at the weary little cow pony who didn’t even raise his head. Pat pushed ahead a staggering step and shoved his muzzle into Petey’s chest.

 

“Yeah,” said Petey. “Yeah. I know. I’m hungry too.”

 

He went toward a saloon and wrapped Pat’s reins about the hitchrack. Petey stepped through the doors and into the dim interior.

 

The bartender was a thick-jowled fellow, shining up glasses. He took one look at Petey and marked him for what he was—saddle tramp.

 

“Beat it,” said the bartender before Petey had spoken. “We got a swamper. There ain’t no room in Cristobal for saddle tramps.”

 

“Look,” pleaded Petey.

 

“Yeah, but you better do the lookin’. Captain Shannon locks up every man that can’t pay his way. He’s cleanin’ up the country, see? He’s tough, the toughest Ranger in the state and you better take my tip. Beat it.”

 

“You mean . . . you mean just because I’m broke he’d lock me up?” said Petey.

 

“Well? Why not?”

 

A chill of terror shook Petey. He turned around and went out into the street. He stopped with Pat’s reins in his hand and stared at the big ’dobe building which was marked with the sign: “THE ARIZONA RANGERS.”

 

He knew what he faced. If they locked him up, Pat . . . He hadn’t realized until now how shabby Pat looked after a thousand miles. They wouldn’t take care of Pat.

 

But he couldn’t go on. No, he couldn’t take to the desert again. That way lay death. And here was death for Pat.

 

His hand was shaking as he pulled his hat brim down. He had no solution for this. Captain Shannon was tough, toughest Ranger in the state. . . .

 

Petey swallowed hard.

 

If Pat . . .

 

Suddenly he wanted to hit somebody, anybody. He wanted to lash out and slay these ghosts which had stalked him for twenty-four years. His rage began to mount.

 

They had no right to do this to him. No right to kill Pat by loosing him on the waterless desert. Pat needed care!

 

Suddenly Petey McGuire felt cold. His wits felt like crystal in his head. He was not shaking. He had felt himself grow taller and the experience did not even surprise him. His young face was set and his blue eyes were suddenly hard.

 

They couldn’t kill Pat.

 

And he knew what he could do.

 

It was an amazingly brazen idea.

 

Without any volition of his own he found himself leading Pat across the road and to the ’dobe fort’s gate.

 

Petey was without any fear of anything. He was five times bigger than the sentry.

 

Maybe it was the sun. Maybe it was starvation. Maybe it was the thought of losing his only friend.

 

But Petey snapped at the leather-faced sentry, “Where’s Shannon?”

 

He did not recognize his own voice.

 

The sentry jerked his thumb toward another archway within. Petey, leading Pat, went toward it.

 

He could see a man beyond. That must be Shannon. A granite boulder behind a desk.

 

Half of Petey was suddenly scared to death. But the other half of him would not stop walking. He dropped Pat’s reins and stalked into the office with a careless, impudent swagger.

 

Captain Shannon looked up, annoyed, starting to stamp the caller by his dusty, torn clothing.

 

But Petey was without fear now. Nothing could stop Petey. Not even himself.

 

“M’name’s McGuire,” said Petey in a challenging tone. “Petey McGuire. You’ve heard of me.”

 

Shannon started to make a biting remark, but Petey rushed on without any help from Petey.

 

“Petey McGuire. From Kansas City to N’Orleans, what I say goes. I’m so tough I’d give a rattler nightmares. You’re Shannon and I hear you need tough guys. Well, you ain’t got anybody around here that’d stand up to me.”

 

“I don’t think . . .” began Shannon sarcastically.

 

“Hell! You trying to tell me you never heard of Petey McGuire? G’wan, I ain’t in no mood for telling funny stories. Where’s my badge and where’s my bunk? And don’t take all day about it!”

 

Petey was scared down. He was so scared he expected Shannon to leap at him across that battered desk.

 

But Shannon looked at a dusty, hard-faced, reckless fellow with a twisted grin on his mouth and a swagger in the way he stood.

 

Shannon was taken not a little aback. He knew his own reputation and now that he was getting old he was guarding it. He had reasons. He had made enemies in his day. And this tough-talking kid had more brass than anybody Shannon had seen for many a year. Shannon’s reputation was such as to demand respect. And here was a young whippersnapper . . .

 

Shannon got up and came around the desk. He was taller than Petey by half a foot and heavier by fifty pounds.

 

With malice, Shannon said, “So you’re tough, are you, sonny?”

 

Petey startled himself by bristling, “The name’s McGuire. Petey McGuire, and if you ain’t heard of me you don’t know nothin’. Where’s the badge and the bunk?”

 

Shannon scratched his jaw and squinted up a cold, gray eye. He was amused. But now was not the time. Oh, no. He could read this kid like a book. Youngster putting on a front and nothing more and when the guns
began to go . . . 

 

Shannon had a sense of humor.

 

“Hunter will show you the bunk. We’ll see about you later.”