THE FUGITIVE BOOK
Fitzhugh Battles realized there were many things in the world he did not know for certain, but of one thing he was sure: outlaws were no damned good and ought to be ridden down like rabid coyotes. One item always with him, besides his Texas Ranger badge, bowie knife and six-shooter, was a handwritten notebook listing names and descriptions of wanted men. The fugitive book was part of every Ranger’s equipment, to be consulted frequently and added to as necessary.
Few things gave him more inner satisfaction than to scratch through a name and write either apprehended or executed. It did not matter whether he or some other Ranger had done the apprehending or killing. What mattered was that one more miscreant had been locked away or buried, out of everyone’s misery. The world would be better off when the last member of that lawless breed had been marked off the list. He did not expect to see it happen during his lifetime, unless that life was much longer than he felt he had any right to expect.
Now Battles was on his way to find and arrest—or if the situation warranted, kill—one Giles Pritchard, wanted in Waco for robbery and murder. The authorities had determined that Pritchard owned a ranch in Comanche County. It seemed plausible he had fled in that direction.
Battles had taken on this job with pleasure. He looked forward to working with the county sheriff, John Durham. They had served together as Rangers a couple of years until Durham had tired of the long horseback trips the Ranger service often required. He was a stay-close-to-home type. He also hated the frequent confrontations with fugitives, sometimes necessitating that they be made to bleed a little, and occasionally a lot. He had decided to run for local office, where such confrontations were likely to be less frequent.
Battles, by contrast, enjoyed the traveling, seeing different country, never remaining in one place long enough to become bored with it. The more he saw of horse thieves and robbers and murderers, the more his contempt grew, the more he was gratified when he saw them brought to ground. If that required spilling blood, well … they should have invested their efforts in whatever honest occupation the Lord had fitted them for.
He rode past several sandy-land farms. Most of them appeared to have yielded up good summer crops. He thought if he ever wearied of Ranger life he might enjoy settling down on such a place. Even more, he might enjoy ranching, raising cattle on the rolling grasslands which still dominated this part of the state a hundred miles beyond Fort Worth. But that was a long time in the future, if it was to be at all. In Battles’s chosen line of work, he had no assurance that there would be a future.
The courthouse was no challenge to find; it was the tallest building in town, though that was hardly enough to brag about. Battles had been there before. He tied his horse and rifled through his saddlebags, sorting out the papers he would need.
Sheriff John Durham met him in the hallway, his hand outstretched, a broad grin lighting the place like sunshine. “Fitz Battles! Saw you through the window. I’ve been afraid some sneakin’ hog thief killed you and it never made the newspapers this far out.”
Durham was about thirty. At forty, Battles had had an extra ten years of sun, wind and strife to carve the lines deeper into his face. Durham’s strong hand gripped like a vise. Battles tried to squeeze even harder and see if he could make Durham wince. “It’ll take somebody with a lot more ambition than a hog thief has got. Glad to see the voters haven’t kicked you out of office yet.”
“I’d invite you down the street for a drink, but it wouldn’t do for the public to see two officers of the law drinkin’ whiskey in the light of the day. Come on in. I’ve got a bottle of contraband in my desk. It ain’t prime, but it’s cheap.”
Battles was impatient to get at the task he had been sent for, but he enjoyed visiting with an old friend, reliving shared experiences, hot trails and cold camps. At length, when they had momentarily run out of talk, Battles laid the papers in front of the sheriff. “Do you know a man named Giles Pritchard?”
Durham looked surprised. “Sure. Got him a little ranch over west of town. Buys and sells horses, peddles them all over the country. Him and me punched cattle together once down on the Pecan Bayou. You got business with him?”
Battles pointed to the arrest warrant. “Seems like he created himself some trouble over in Waco. Best anybody could figure, he and a kid helper took a little string of horses over on the Bosque River and sold them to a trader. Must not have got as much as he wanted, because he stopped off at a bank in Waco that was flush with fresh cotton-crop money. He made a six-shooter withdrawal. Shot a teller dead. Him and his helper got away in a high lope.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“Pritchard had a stroke of bad luck. The trader who bought the horses happened to be in the bank too, ducked down where Pritchard wouldn’t see him. Pritchard may not know he’s been identified.”
Durham frowned. “Shootin’ a banker could be considered a service. The country would be better off without so many of them high-interest highbinders.”
“Same as it could do without so many lawyers, but the law calls for due process. Pritchard’s method was undue process.”
Reluctance was strong in Durham’s eyes. “I always knew Giles was a shade too wild for his own good, but I never would’ve pictured him doin’ such a thing as this. You sure there ain’t been some mistake?”
“There was, and he made it.”
The sheriff’s face pinched hard. “What do you want of me?”
“You know it’s Ranger policy to involve local peace officers whenever we can. I’d like you to take me out to Pritchard’s place and assist me in the arrest.”
Battles could see that Durham was wrestling hard with his doubts. Durham said, “I don’t guess you know that Giles got married a year or so ago? I was at the weddin’. Alicia’s about as pretty a girl as I ever met.”
“I’m sorry Pritchard’s a friend of yours. It doesn’t change what he’s done.”
“His old daddy was one of the finest men I ever knew. I was a pallbearer at his funeral.”
“It wasn’t his daddy who killed the teller.”
“The old man worried a right smart about Giles’s streak of wildness. I’m glad he’s not here to see this.”
Slowly and with reluctance, Durham retrieved his hat from a rack in the corner. “It’s ten miles out there. We’d better go down the street and get us some dinner before we start.”
Durham had little to say on the long ride to the Pritchard place. He would begin to relate a story about something he and Pritchard had done together, or something about Pritchard’s kindly old father. He would break off the stories before they were finished.
Battles said, “There must be a side to him that you never wanted to recognize. Flaws in him that you never saw.”
“I always believed in givin’ a man the benefit of the doubt.”
“Give it to the wrong man and he’s apt to kill you. At the least he’ll leave you hurtin’.”
“I’ve never known anybody who took as much pleasure in runnin’ down outlaws as you do. I’ve seen you get damned near drunk on it.”
“Bury enough friends and you’ll get to where you hate them like strychnine. A couple of them snakes came in off of the railroad one time and killed my old daddy. Killed him for two dollars and a pocket watch. I tracked them down and shot them both like hydrophoby dogs. After that, I joined the Rangers.” Battles scowled. “If it was up to me I’d stomp every last one of them like I’d stomp a scorpion.”
He saw a small frame house ahead. By the dread in Durham’s face, he surmised that this was Pritchard’s home.
The sheriff said, “Knowin’ your feelin’s, I’d like to be the one serves the papers. I’d hate to have you shoot Giles when it’s not necessary.”
Battles was dubious about turning the responsibility over to a lawman so personally involved. “He’s apt to be desperate, knowin’ what he faces. You sure you want to do it?”
“He’s my friend.”
He’s a murderer, Battles thought. This is where friendship ought to end. But his own liking for Durham caused him to waver. “All right, but watch him. He may not be as friendly as you think.”
They rode up to a rough picket fence in front of the house. Durham dismounted. “You stay here, Fitz. I’ll go talk to him.”
Battles began having serious second thoughts as he watched Durham step up onto the narrow porch and knock on the door facing. “Giles, this is John Durham. I need to talk to you.”
After a long minute that seemed like five, a young woman came to the door. She looked anxiously at the sheriff, then past him to Battles, who remained on his horse. “What do you want with him?”
“There’s been some trouble over at Waco. I need to talk to him.”
The woman’s voice was shaky. “He’s not here. He’s out helpin’ a neighbor work cattle.”
Even at a distance, Battles knew she was lying. He had seen through far better liars than this woman would ever be. He could tell by the sheriff’s uncertain manner that Durham sensed it too.
Durham said, “I hate to do this, Alicia, but I need to look through the house.”
“No, John, please.” The woman turned quickly and shouted, “Run, Giles! Run!”
Almost before the words were out of her mouth. Battles was spurring his horse around the side of the house. He saw a man bolt from the back door and sprint toward the barn, rifle in his hand. Pritchard was feverishly trying to work the lever, but it appeared jammed. Battles overran him and leveled his pistol. He fired it into the ground in front of the fugitive. The bullet raised a puff of dust.
Battles said, “The next one goes in your ear.” Pritchard stopped and turned to face the Ranger. Eyes wide with fear, he dropped the rifle. “Don’t shoot me. For God’s sake, don’t.”
“I expect there was a teller in Waco said the same thing to you, or tried to. You shot him anyway.”
Pritchard seemed so frightened he could barely control his voice. “Waco? Ain’t never been in Waco.”
“There’s a witness back there who says different.”
“What’re you goin’ to do with me?”
“Take you to Waco. Let you stand before your accusers.”
Pritchard’s eyes darted wildly back and forth. Battles thought he was probably already imagining that thick, slick rope around his neck, choking, strangling.
Durham hurried out the back door. He anxiously looked Pritchard over, his anxiety giving way to relief. “I thought Fitz had shot you. Damn it, why did you run?”
“I was scared. When Alicia hollered, all I could think of was to light out.”
Battles observed, “If you were innocent, you had no reason to be afraid of us. You could’ve figured we stopped in for coffee.”
“I’m afraid when I see a Ranger. They been known to shoot a man for no reason.”
Battles said, “You took time to grab a rifle.”
“Instinct. I never had no intention of usin’ it.”
Copyright © 2021 by Elmer Stephen Kelton Estate
