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  In every democracy the laws for the protection of the innocent allows loopholes through which the guilty can slip ...

  The Governor of Texas decided that only unconventional methods could cope with the malefactors who slipped through the meshes of the law and so was formed a select group of Texas Rangers. Picked for their courage, honesty and devotion to justice, they were known as Company Z ...

  With one exception, every man in Company Z had been a member of the Texas Rangers for several years. Alvin Fog was that man. He had inherited the muscles, skill at gun-handling and bare-handed fighting of his grandfather, the legendary Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog. But his fellows in Company Z were not convinced he had the skill needed for their unconventional duties. It was up to him to prove he was worthy of his place in Company Z. Only he alone could truly become ... Alvin Fog, Texas Ranger!

  CAP FOG 1: ALVIN FOG, TEXAS RANGER

  By J. T. Edson

  Originally published under the title, You’re A Texas Ranger, Alvin Fog

  First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1979

  Copyright © 1979, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Kindle Edition: November 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Cover image © 2018 by Tony Masero

  Check out Tony’s work here

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  For Myrtle Molloy, who—unlike her husband, Bob and myself, who are growing old and decrepit—still looks as young and beautiful as ever.

  Table of Contents

  Publisher’s Note

  Introduction

  Case One – Alvin Fog’s Mistake

  Case Two – Jubal Branch’s Lucky B.A.R.

  Case Three – The Deadly Ghost

  About the Author

  Publisher’s Note

  As with other books in this series, the author uses characters’ native dialect to bring that person to life. Whether they speak French, Irish, American English or English itself, he uses the local vernacular to impart this.

  Therefore when characters use words such as “Mon Hammy” instead of “Mon Ami”; “miss-creant” for “miscreant”; “auty-matics” for “automatics”; “wirey-less” for “wireless” for example, please bear in mind that these are not spelling/OCR mistakes.

  Introduction

  ‘So you’re the young feller from England who’s been writing about the Hardin, Fog and Blaze Clan all these years?’ [1]

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, wondering what would come next.

  ‘You’re doing a right satisfactory chore,’ the man to whom I had just been introduced declared in his Texas drawl. ‘And forget the “sir”, you-all aren’t that young. Call me Cap. Then haul off and tell me what I can do for you.’

  I must admit that I had been experiencing a slight sense of apprehension ever since I was told who was to be the dinner guest at the home of my friends Ellen and Chuck Kurtzman that warm July evening in 1975.

  Having attended the Twenty-Second Annual Convention of Western Writers of America at Carson City, Nevada, I had accepted Elley and Chuck’s kind invitation to return to Fort Worth, Texas—the Twenty-First Annual Convention having been held there—and spend a few days with them. Although Elley had hinted there was a surprise in store for me, I would never have guessed what it was to be.

  What is more, to this day I still do not know how she brought it about. [2]

  I had, of course, been in written communication with various members of what I will continue to refer to as the Hardin, Fog and Blaze Clan for several years, but this was my first meeting with one of them. My requests to do so on my two previous visits to the United States—attending the Twentieth Annual Convention of W.W.A. at Olympia, Washington State having been the first—had been politely, but definitely, refused. Yet Elley had not only arranged the meeting, but it was with the current patriarch of the clan, Alvin Dustine ‘Cap’ Fog himself.

  Despite being over seventy, Cap looked a good twenty years younger. Small, but still with an excellent physique, although he no longer trimmed down at the waist as much as he had on photographs I had seen which were taken in the 1920s, it was his face that impressed me most. One would not call him handsome, but his tanned features had a strength of will mingled with a sense of humor which told of an exceptionally potent personality. It caused one to forget his lack of height, for he had the indefinable aura of a person possessing an inborn ability to command. He was, in fact, everything I had always assumed his paternal grandfather, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog, C.S.A.— for whom I have the honor to be official biographer—to be.

  ‘I keep getting asked by readers why Tommy Okasi, [3] who was a trained samurai, [4] came to be in the United States in the 1830s,’ I hinted. ‘And I hope I’II be able to give them the answer.’

  ‘Well now,’ Cap said, his voice dry although his gray eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘I reckon that’s one hope you’re going to be shy on when you-all head back to home. Trouble being, with what caused him to light out and the folks involved being so important — all of whom have kin alive and holding down pretty influential positions in Japan to this day—we don’t figure it’s advisable to let the truth get out even at this late date. So those readers’re just going to have to stay curious.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Cap,’ I assented.

  ‘Bueno,’ this Texan of Texans drawled and I sensed that my acquiescence without argument had satisfied him. ‘Say, did you-all ever run across an amigo of mine, Mr. J. G. Reeder?’

  ‘I only wish I had,’ I confessed, having read all of this great detective’s biographies which had been written by Edgar Wallace.’ [5]

  ‘But I didn’t know you’d met.’

  ‘It was back in ’28,’ Cap said reminiscently and I formed the opinion that the meeting held a number of pleasant memories for him. ‘Yes, sir, good old James Garfield was one he-bull on his home range, same as all his kind.’

  ‘James Garfield?’ I repeated, remembering that I had read another name in Mr. Wallace’s biographies. ‘I thought his name was John Grant?’

  To say I was interested is putting it mildly!

  At first, Cap was reluctant to go into greater detail. However, he finally offered—with the proviso that I obtained a clearance, before starting to write, from the executors of Mr. J. G. Reeder’s biographer—to present me with all his notes on the affair for publication. [6]

  Changing the subject, I asked how he had acquired the sobriquet, Cap. I was informed that it had come into being when he, the youngest man ever to attain the rank of captain in the Texas Rangers, took over command of Company “Z”. I remarked that I had never come across a reference to such a Company in any of the histories of the Texas Rangers I have read. Cap explained that, because of the unconventional fashion in which he and his men carried out their duties, their existence had been kept secret.

  I immediately pointed out how many would be interested to learn about Company “Z” and Caps’ participation in its activities, but he stated that this was not yet permissible. All he could promise was that, should the time become propitious, he would notify me. After that, alth
ough he has continued to supply me with information upon which further books were based, [7] he did not refer to the matter and I was starting to believe he had forgotten. However, a few days ago a package arrived addressed in his familiar handwriting. Much to my delight, I found it contained the necessary authorization and several casebooks.

  So, here at last, is some of the story of Cap Fog, Company “Z”.

  J. T. Edson

  Case One – Alvin Fog’s Mistake

  ‘This’ll be him now, I reckon,’ Major Benson Tragg remarked, coming to his feet as there was a knock on the door of the room he was renting at the luxurious Cattlemen’s Hotel in Austin. ‘Push it open, Jubal, it’s not locked.’

  Alvin Dustine Fog had been trained since childhood to be a peace officer by two acknowledged authorities in all matters pertaining to such duties. [8] These included the handling of firearms, which was still as necessary on occasion in the early 1920s as it had been when Texas was growing—out of hide and horn—from the poverty left in the wake of the War Between the States. [9] At twenty, he had already served for two years in the Rio Hondo County Sheriff’s Office as one of his father’s deputies and had had a commendable number of successful cases to his credit. For all that, he felt more than a trifle uneasy in his mind as the door began to open. He wondered how the latest visitor would react on being appointed as his partner and to the discovery that, although he had just been sworn in as a Texas Ranger, he was to be granted the rank of sergeant immediately his period of probation was over. He was all too aware that, on the surface at any rate, he appeared anything but a likely candidate for acceptance into the Lone Star State’s best known and most respected law enforcement agency, much less warranting such an early promotion.

  Not more than five foot six in height, Alvin had a bronzed face which was moderately handsome and yet made him appear somewhat younger than his actual age. A wide brimmed, low crowned black J. B. Stetson hat hung by its barbiquejo chinstrap on his shoulders to exhibit curly, short and newly trimmed black hair. [10] He had on a waist length brown leather jacket which gave little indication of there being a Colt Government Model of 1911 automatic pistol in a spring retention holster against his left ribs, or the two spare magazines filled with rimless .45 bullets in a pocket inside its right side. Tight rolled and knotted, a multi-hued silk bandana trailed its long ends over his open necked dark green shirt. A brown waist belt with a fancy buckle and floral pattern carving held up new Levi’s pants. Their legs, cuffs turned back a good three inches deep, hung outside Justin boots carrying Kelly Tetmaker’s spurs on the heels.

  If Alvin looked like a cowhand who had donned his best clothing to celebrate paying a visit to the State’s capital city, Major Benson Tragg conveyed the impression of being a prosperous rancher. There was little about him to suggest he belonged to a family which had long been associated with the law enforcement of Texas. [11] A good six foot tall, he had the lean and wiry build of one who still followed a strenuous occupation. He had on a lightweight brown suit of excellent cut—although the tailor had not been able to make the jacket so it entirely hid the bulge of the short barreled Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker holstered butt forward on the left side of his waist belt—a white shirt and sober blue necktie, but his footwear was as suitable as that of his young visitor for riding a horse and working cattle.

  From all appearances—so alike were they in height, build and general demeanor—the man who entered could have been cast in the same mold as Tragg. His attire also suggested he was connected with the cattle business but closer to Alvin’s level. White haired—he was carrying an ancient grayish-green Stetson in his left hand—his leathery brown features gave little hint as to his age, except that he was well on in years, or the feelings behind its impassive mask. Yet they were far from surly or disapproving. In fact, there were wrinkles at the corners of the keen blue eyes and the lean slash of a mouth suggested a dry sense of humor. He was wearing a somewhat baggy brown coat, a gray shirt buttoned to the neck, but without a necktie. Like the hat, his Levi’s pants and Justin boots looked old enough to have been part of the original batches put on the market by their respective manufacturers.

  Despite being keen sighted and trained for such detection, Alvin could not see any trace of the newcomer being armed. He found this rather surprising. As was the rule with most law enforcement agencies, a Texas Ranger was expected to have a weapon on his person at all times; including when he was off duty. Nor did it appear likely that a man with Branch’s considerable experience as a peace officer would have forgotten such a basic precaution.

  A dog followed the man into the room and there was something about it which diverted Alvin’s attention from trying to discover where he was carrying his weapon. Standing a full twenty-six inches at the shoulder and weighing at least one hundred pounds, it had a dark bluish-gray coloration with a black head, saddle and the speckling by numerous irregularly shaped small spots which was responsible for its breed’s name of blue-tick coonhound. [12] However, its size suggested that it was more likely to be used for hunting big game such as cougar, black or grizzly bear rather than raccoon.

  Being a keen hunter and follower of coonhounds, the young Texan found the dog’s appearance and attitude as intriguing as its owner’s apparent lack of armament. Straight up, of racy type, it was well muscled without being chunky or clumsily built. Its coat was medium coarse and, lying close to the body, had the glossy smoothness which told of excellent health and fitness. Anything but goose-necked, its head was carried well up and the longish ears were set low. Square from the top to the end of the nose and in perfect proportion with the rest of the skull, the muzzle had flews well covering the lower jaw. They combined with clean, keen eyes to give a pleading hound expression which was neither wild nor cowed. Attached slightly below the back line, well rooted, tapered and of moderate length, its tail was carried high in a forward curving crescent. Yet, despite all the evidence of its unexceptionable physical condition, it moved in such a lethargic fashion that it might have been tired almost beyond endurance.

  ‘This is Alvin Dustine Fog, Jubal,’ Tragg introduced. ‘The young feller I was telling you-all about. Alvin, meet Sergeant Jubal Branch.’

  ‘Right pleased to make your acquaintance,’ the newcomer declared, his Texas drawl implying his background was lower on the social scale than that of the other men present. Strolling forward, his leisurely-seeming gait giving a deceptive speed, he extended his right hand and went on, ‘Knowed your grandpappy, Colonel Dusty [13] and your daddy. Jackson and me did a hitch together in the Army and rode side by side more’n once when I was a deputy under Sheriff Billy-Bob Brackett down to Jack County.’

  ‘I’ve heard them both speak of you-all, Jubal,’ Alvin admitted, shaking hands. As he was doing so, the blue-tick ambled up. Sniffing at his left leg in passing, it gave a single languid wag of its tail before crossing to flop down in the corner of the room and, apparently, falling asleep. Having watched it, Alvin swung his gaze back to its owner. ‘Have you-all come far?’

  ‘Drove over from Widow Haskey’s rooming house on Thirty-Eighth street is all,’ the sergeant replied, drawing an accurate conclusion over what had caused the question. His voice took on a slightly defensive note as he continued, ‘Mind you, ole Lightning ’n’ me walked all the way up here ’stead of riding that fancy el-ee-vator.’

  ‘Lightning?’ Alvin repeated, unable to prevent himself from throwing another glance at the sleeping blue-tick.

  ‘Sounded like a right good name to call him – once,’ Branch stated, his bearing suggesting a kind of defiant exculpation for what he knew to have been an all too obvious error of judgment on his part. ‘Anyways, when a feller gets to my age, he don’t want no fool hound dog’s goes dashing and rushing about wild-like.’

  ‘One thing’s for sure,’ Alvin conceded, suspecting that the blue-tick’s demeanor was deceptive and that he was repeating comments on the matter which had been frequently made. ‘Nobody’s ever going to start
accusing him of doing that.’

  During the conversation, the elderly sergeant had continued the examination of his future partner which he had commenced on entering and was now drawing conclusions. The youngster did not have his daddy’s height and heft. Rather he favored his paternal grandfather, except he had his grandmother’s black hair. [14] There was the same kind of spread to his shoulders and trimming down at the waist Cap’n Dusty had had, hinting at his small frame being packed with muscle power that a bigger man would not have scorned to possess. His face gave little away and his gray eyes looked capable of boring through a man. From all accounts, he had done pretty well as a deputy down in Rio Hondo County and was reckoned to be a regular snake with a handgun. Branch knew Jackson Fog too well to think he would have been retained in the Sheriff’s Office unless he was worthy of the badge, kin or not. Of course, there were differences in being a deputy and serving in the Texas Rangers. Somehow, Branch felt sure he would be willing to listen and learn when any of those differences came up.

  Taking everything into consideration, the sergeant was confident that he and the young man would be able to work together harmoniously. Nor was he in the least put out by the knowledge that, once Major Tragg was satisfied, the other was to be promoted to his own rank when they joined the new Company which the Governor of Texas was having formed.

  Conscious that he was being subjected to a thorough scrutiny, Alvin had been doing the same to the observer while wondering whether he was being found acceptable. He hoped that he was. Not only had Branch many years’ practical experience of law enforcement, much of it had been acquired in the Texas Rangers. Their State-wide jurisdiction gave a greater scope and variety of duties than came the way of a deputy sheriff, whose authority was restricted to the county in which he held his office. That would be particularly the case when Company “Z” came into being and commenced its specialized, unconventional task. Having the elderly sergeant’s guidance and access to the wisdom he had accrued would be more than merely a source of valuable information, or the means of carrying out an assignment correctly. It could spell the difference between life and death.