Captain Bill McDonald, Texas Ranger: A Story of Frontier Reform

by Albert Bigelow Paine

It was about 8:30 o'clock and they had covered a little more than half the distance to Rio Grande City, when they heard the noise of approaching wheels and vaguely distinguished the outlines of some vehicle in the darkness ahead. They were at the time about opposite Casita Ranch—a poor place with the usual brush fences. Mr. Inman slackened down his mules and pulled the Ranger hack a little to one side of the road, supposing it to be only one of the traveling coaches that make daily trips between Rio Grande City and the railway terminus. But when the approaching vehicle was about thirty paces away, there was a sudden flash in the dark, a report, and a bullet went singing over the heads of the Rangers.

The Rangers were instantly in battle front, guns up and ready. They did not fire at once, however, for there might be some mistake.

"Hold up there!" called McDonald. "We are Texas Rangers! Stop that shooting!" and this admonition Private McKenzie quickly repeated in the Mexican tongue.

CAPTAIN BILL'S LAST BATTLE.
"As pretty a fight as ever took place on the banks of the Rio Grande."

There was no chance for mistake, after that. The hacks had been moving right along and were now not more than twelve feet apart. Then the approaching hack stopped and three figures with guns were seen to leap to the ground. Captain Bill, who was standing up in the hack with his Winchester leveled on them, thought at first that they were getting out to surrender their arms, and three of his Rangers, McCauley, McKenzie and Delling quickly jumped down, facing them. But at that instant the epithets "Cavarones!" and "Gringoes!" came from the Mexicans, and then "Tetterly! Tetterly!" (Shoot! Shoot!) with which signal the Mexicans, both on the ground and in the hack, let go at the Rangers, point blank, while from behind the brush fence two guns in ambush opened an enfilading fire.

Then for the thirty seconds or so that it lasted, there was as pretty a fight as ever took place on the banks of the Rio Grande. With seven Mexican and five Ranger rapid-fire guns going—a round dozen in all—there was one continuous explosion, and an unceasing glare.

"From where I stood in the hack, I could see the whites of their eyes," Captain Bill said afterward, "and I felt as if I could pick the buttons off their coats. I let go as fast as I knew how, and at a different Mexican every time."

But though rapid, the Ranger fire was cool and accurate, while the Mexican marksmanship was inexcusably bad.

In less than half a minute it was all over. The seven Mexican guns were silenced, the Mexican force demolished. In the road, a man lay across his gun, dead. Two were limping and staggering away—one with a broken leg, the other to die; two more—the ambushers—were hiding in the weeds (where they were presently captured), while in the Mexican hack, which was now once more moving slowly along, was a freight of yet two more, both dead.