Chapter 1

Knock-knock-knock came from the barracks' door. Horace tried to jump up from his single bunk in the watch commander's office but fell out onto the dirt floor when his blanket tied up his legs. He felt awkward and uncontrolled. "Ouch! What the hell..." Great to be a little clumsy, right?

So far it had been a terrible night. He'd twisted and turned his 6-foot-3-inch frame from one side of his bed to the other. Memories of her haunted him. Every few minutes he'd awakened and tried to shake her from his head.

Cheap cigar smoke billowed in through the opening door to the adjoining room where eleven rangers slept. It made his stomach queasy. Horace gasped, stood up, and rubbed his hair back.

"Lieutenant B-B-Bell, need you, all men to c-c-check out the Moreno fandango," a man said.

Horace recognized him. He was the new fancy-assed marshal, the Arkansas hangman who dressed like a damn wannabe theater actor. How could the marshal keep his boots so shiny and immaculate? Horace gave his hair another rub and gathered his senses.

"Marshal, what's the problem there?" he asked.

"I heard M-M-Mexican banditti have t-t-taken over the fandango, Lieutenant."

Horace stepped into the barracks and told Sergeant Roy Bean to assemble the squad for duty. He smiled as the men slapped on French toilet water getting ready to meet the senoritas. Hell, it would be fun. He reached for his light-blue uniform jacket. Its gold shoulders shone back at him in the mirror. The good-looking Spanish senoritas would think he was a tall, twenty-seven-year-old American general. Yeah, sure.

"Marshal, you hurry along and back us up," Bean said.

"B-B-Be right along," the marshal said in his custom-made black coat. Its dark beaver collar glistened back at them in the candlelight. The marshal scowled at Sergeant Bean, then ran his hand over the brim of his new hat in a makeshift salute. Horace watched the Arkansas man's eyes. They showed fright. Bean shook his head.

"Bean, I'll git an extra revolver and f-f-follow right along," the marshal said and walked away.

"That henpecked yellow chicken is gonna hide," Bean said.

All twelve rangers double-timed the two blocks to the Moreno adobe by the pueblo plaza. In the light of a full moon, Horace noticed a window clock saying eleven p.m. The excitement of a late-night party and bandits would be fun and a relief from his torment.

"Sunday night, and he's goin' home to be with his new wife," Bean said.

"Like to see her other husband in El Monte show up. That'd be real fun."

"We'd really see that mousy twerp run then."

"Yup, like when my uncle chased Peter Biggs, our black barber, with his .45 out of town for dancing with the governor's wife. Oh well. Take five men and enter the rear. I'll take the other half through the front," Horace said.

"Two months since we hanged that damn Juan Flores, and we're still stickin' our necks out."

"Quit complaining, Sergeant. All you ever do is complain," Horace said, shaking his head.

Horace heard the Mexican music and the lively conversation emanating from the large U-shaped home. He knew the three-foot adobe walls would make the home cool in the balmy Los Angeles night. He could almost taste the fried pork and beef as their luscious cooked-food smells filled the nighttime air. Damn. He hoped he could find the bandits, make the arrests, and then eat. Mexican-food aromas always made him hungry. He entered the front door unannounced with his small army behind. First in and first to fight.

Crack!

He reached for his gun. Then he laughed. A black-eyed beauty had just cracked cascarones on his head. Red, green, and white tinsel sprawled on his hat and shoulders. It sparkled into gold and silver slivers in the muted candlelight. The senorita, a Dona dressed in a brilliant Mexican gown of red, white, and green Chinese silk, quickly brushed off the small wax piece that once held the egg's contents. Her raven hair contrasted with her light complexion, and her smile was complemented by her lowered, humble eyes. She appeared to be begging him. Then her eyes danced open into his, and Horace fell into melancholy. About twenty, she reminded him of a lost love. He snapped out of it and quickly looked for any danger. He met Bean in the center of the home.

"Hey, Horace, looks like some delicious dark-haired beauty has her sights on those gold shoulders," Bean said.

"Nothing here, not a bandit in sight," Horace said.

"Hell with 'em, Horace. These little darlins' need some of my attention."

"You're right. Let's enjoy the festivities."

"That one there looks like she needs my company," Bean said, grabbing a chair and walking toward his next prey. Horace saw her smiling at Bean. God, there went Don Juan of the L.A. Rangers, the handsome male wolf in the pueblo. Bean's looks were just second to his. Then he remembered. Pride came before the fall.

"I'm going back to the one who showered my uniform," Horace said after him. Bean winked back. That was the gauntlet of a contest. Horace had to watch his back. He smiled. He couldn't be outperformed by Bean. Nope.

"Good evening," Horace said, as a well-groomed young lady grabbed his hand and led him onto the dance floor. She smelled of the finest perfume, something with a hint of jasmine. He was in love. At least for the moment. Then another young damsel cut in and took his attention. He started to realize this would be a tough night. When the third one stepped in, he asked for a liquid break.

Bean already had him beat, now with a Spanish miss under each arm. Bean could work two at a time. Horace had not yet acquired that ability, nor did he see that as a learned option. He always was a one-timer. Bean straddled his chair and sat with both gals in front of him. Horace double-checked the entire party casa and then started to enjoy the fandango. He looked again for the first senorita with the tinsel egg. Bean had acquired her too, the tinsel lady surrounded by both his arms. He must have cornered her. There she'd gone.

No matter. On second glance, she didn't hold a candle to Jacinta. Damn, that hurt losing her to murder. Time to eat chicken tamales and drink free aguardiente. Somehow he'd forget sorrow and have some fun.

Bean moved out onto the dance floor with the tinsel lady for a Mexican folk dance. To La Bamba music, Bean swung his arms in tune while she threw her head back and swished her sensual veil. The harp, guitar, violin, and flageolet made good music to the local pueblo citizen, while the uninformed gringo would think it discordant. Then a Mexican sang and further confused the uninitiated. Horace was reminded of how bad his own voice could be. Three army officers talked together. An Indian from India talked with Peter Biggs, the black Democrat barber. The other ten brilliant blue-jacketed and gold-striped ranger uniforms added to the local fandango color.

Horace watched as the Dons and vaqueros held their horses tight outside the casa. He smiled knowing they were afraid of the Indians, or peons, pelados, or riffraff who'd take their horses and trade them for liquor. The rancheros held their horses while they saluted the rangers with respect.

After having a bit of food and drink, Horace asked a fair Spanish maiden to join him on the dance floor to compete with Sergeant Bean. No self-respected, damn ranger lieutenant could allow himself to be outdone by his sergeant! They danced in perfect harmony and outdid Bean. Of course Horace was better than....

Bang!

"What the ..." Bean said.

"Out back," Horace pointed.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Outside, three monte tables were set up for gambling, and all the tables were full. A man hunched over one table as his breath slipped away. Cards fell from his limp hand. A gambler yelled, "Goddamn cheat palmed the cards from his sleeve!"

"Yeah, rangers, bastard cheat was caught red-handed tryin' to git us," an old miner said.

Bean examined the dead man's left sleeve. In it were ten cards, the same blue deck color as the ones on the bloody table. Horace told a ranger to write the report.

Horace needed a drink. The party was two blocks from the worst lawlessness in Calle de los Negros, casually referred to as "Nigger Alley," but death spilled beyond the Alley. Only in Los Angeles did the city average a death a day, and only five thousand lived in the whole county. Horace wondered if it would ever change, but he loved the damn place.

Once inside, he watched as the music began again. A lively waltz enticed the Americans to dance. Horace recognized a German man he liked.

"Bush, how are you tonight?"

"Fine, Lieutenant. I'm looking for my old sweetheart. That one there."

Bush asked another gringo, Nimmo, for some colored eggs. Horace watched the exchange next to him. Bush must have wanted to honor his past love, so he approached her and cracked the eggs on her head. One was rotten, and Horace saw the shock and disgust on her face. "Oh no!" Horace said, but he was too late. Bush had already pulled his Colt .44. Nimmo was dead.

"Hell of a night, Horace, no Mexican bandits and two dead already. Welcome to Los Angeles," Bean said, and then he laughed.

Horace took off his hat and rubbed his hair back. "Have two men take Bush to the jail log and chain him down. And Sergeant, have the men clean up the mess."

"Sure. Hey, relax, Luie. How 'bout we fill up with more of that good food and drink," Bean said.

They went into the buffet line to gather a full plate of L.A.'s finest Mexican food. The vaqueros smiled at their nonchalant behavior. Horace watched as two rangers swept the dirt floor. Then two more led Bush out to the pueblo's jail yard by the small three-room courthouse.

"Where in the hell is that lily-livered marshal?" Bean asked, wolfing down a tortilla.

"In a comfy bed with his shared wife. What do you bet?" Horace said.

"Well, Lieutenant Bell," Bean asked, licking his fingers, "can I have your permission to hold one of them nonofficial court martial hearins' for dereliction of duty?" He wiped his moustache.

"Fine with me, Roy. You know I can't stand cowards."

Roy Bean finished his meal and left Horace at the party. He took five rangers with him to the marshal's adobe nearly two blocks away. Liquor had desensitized all six men. They felt no pain and wanted to show fancy-pants what happened to yellow-bellied officers of the law. They went directly to his door and pounded hard. They heard him fall out of bed. Then he took a minute to answer the brash knock.

"What y'all needem?" the marshal asked.

"Been a hell of a row at the Morenos' casa. We need you there now!" Bean yelled.

"Okay."

The rangers waited ten minutes for the marshal to get ready, during which the rangers held a court martial in his absence. All six unanimously voted for cowardice and conviction. Bean smiled. Fancy-pants was about to be sentenced.

The marshal finally opened his door, placed gloves on his hands, and stepped out into the night air. His classy black coat and polished boots sparkled in the full moonlight. Grabbing his brim, he saluted the rangers.

"Howdy, boys. Are we r-r-ready?"

"Sure enough, you chicken-shit coward. Grab him, rangers!" Bean ordered.

"B-b-b-boys, w-w-what are you d-d-doing?"

Bean pulled out a greasy pack of monte playing cards and acted as if he were reading from a law book. "In accordance with the laws of the state of California, we here rangers find you guilty of treason, desertion, and bein' a plain damn coward!"

"W-w-what?"

"Hell, Sergeant, how about a cat-hauling for fancy-pants?" a ranger yelled.

"Grab a rope for the scoundrel, and give him some pueblo justice," Bean said. He laughed at the thought of them dragging fancy-pants through the wet ditch in his fine clothes. He wished they could sell admission tickets for he knew the other ninety-four rangers would all pay to see the marshal get his retribution. Perhaps the rest of the pueblo public who voted him into office would like to join the rangers and hoot him too. But, then again, those liberals didn't understand true bravery and devotion to duty.

Bean remembered when he'd thrown the marshal in the air with a huge army blanket after the marshal had hanged a fellow he didn't know for a gold piece. Hell, the marshal's only interest had been the twenty-buck payment to pull on the rope. The rangers had celebrated the hanging by grabbing the Arkansas man and putting him in the blanket. The Southerner had flown so high, he'd almost broken his neck. The doctor had charged the marshal twenty dollars to reset his neck. The marshal had given him the Judas twenty-dollar piece and simply commented, "Even trade," after which the fool citizens had elected the gold digger to office. Bean wondered if the citizens would ever learn.

The rangers wrapped the rope around the marshal and took him to San Pedro and First streets to the Zanja Madre, the pueblo's main water ditch. It smiled at them in the moonlight with its wide-open wetness. The rangers threw the roped marshal into the three-foot-deep blackness and began dragging him back and forth.

"B-B-B-o-y-s, you're killing ..."

"Shut up, you Arkansas wimp!" one ranger yelled back.

"Take your punishment as a man!" another yelled.

Bean amused himself by counting the runs back and forth. After fifty round trips, he yelled, "Enough!"

The water-soaked marshal crawled out on all fours and collapsed on the street. Bean saw that he could breathe, barely.

"You're free to go home, you damned coward," Bean said.

The rangers laughed and walked back to finish out the party at the Moreno casa. There were still good-looking senoritas available.

Around ten a.m. the next day, the five rangers and Roy Bean received notice to appear in court immediately to answer the charges of using the color of their authority against the marshal. Judge Burrill had sworn out the warrants for their arrest.

Roy Bean sat straddling a chair and red-faced in the rangers' barracks. He twisted his moustache right and left.

"Roy, relax. Tom will defend you," Horace said, rubbing his hair back. "I'm involved, you see. You know Burrill is still mad at me for telling the truth about him and Sheriff Barton and Fontes, that whole connection. Over 100 men got killed because of that Barton fellow."

"Well, that damn marshal should've taken his punishment. Now it's gonna get bad," Bean said, continually twisting his moustache as they got up to leave for court.

Horace and Bean pulled their bandanas over their noses as the Santa Ana winds kicked up the pueblo street dirt. A carriage stopped right in front of them. Horace recognized the elegantly dressed Chinese tong leader Yo Hing and his servant, Sing Hop. The Chinese men bowed to them and watched as the rangers passed.

"Them Chinese is takin' over the Alley," Bean said.

"They'll follow the Mexicans, but as rich as they get, they'll never be accepted by most folks here," Horace said.

Bean nodded. "The more visible they git, the more problems they'll git."

As they approached the weathered, dark-wooded courtroom, Horace noticed Indian Toto passed out at the door. Right in front of them the spiffed-up marshal tripped over the Indian and almost fell. He grabbed the side of the courthouse and yelled when his hands took in the splinters.

Bean laughed. "If you'd pick up your drunks, marshal, you wouldn't look like such a damn fool."

"Wouldn't want you to mess up that nice beaver collar when you hit the ground, huh, Sergeant Bean?" Horace asked.

The marshal turned toward them and grunted, "I'll show both you boys a thing or two messin' with me!"

All six defendant rangers sat together with glum faces in the front row of the small courtroom with their legs on the table in front of them, their hands on their weapons. Bean twisted his moustache with his free left hand. Horace removed his hat and rubbed his hair back nervously. He sat with the other five rangers who'd worked that night. Bean was right in front of Horace.

Behind Horace sat five Mexicans, one Horace had seen in court before on a prior shoplifting offense. He was twenty-two, had black eyes and a straggly beard. Horace recalled his name - Tiburcio Vasquez. He was from a fine family. His father, Don Vasquez, owned a small rancho in Monterey. Somehow Vasquez was already on the dark path of crime. Horace nodded at him. Vasquez looked directly at him without gesturing. He then looked down and ran both hands over his face.

Horace watched the marshal walking to the witness stand. As he passed by Tiburcio Vasquez, he went nose-to-nose with him and said, "Vasquez, you are going to be my slave 'cause you are going down!"

Vasquez turned away from the marshal and said something that made his companions laugh.

The marshal glared back at him and sneered, "It won't be so funny when you're in my custody."

Bean grumbled something under his breath.

Horace kicked Bean's chair. "Bean, just sit there and tie those lips together," he said.

"Your Honor, in front of you sit six rangers who maliciously almost drowned their duly-elected marshal," the district attorney said, his eyes glaring at the accused.

"Now, that ain't fair to these men, your Honor. They was just givin' the marshal his comeuppance," Tom said.

"Hold on here. Who said the marshal needed his so-called comeuppance?" the district attorney said.

"You mean, Mr. Dimmick, or should I say Mr. Dimwit, you don't know about fancy-pants?" Tom retorted.

At that Tom lost his composure and threw over the counsel table toward the judge. The court's constable ran out in fear of his life. The coward marshal sprinted right after him. The four Mexicans with eyes as big as saucers scurried behind their leader, Tiburcio Vasquez, out the door. The judge dived under his bench after grabbing his gavel for protection.

Horace sat back and watched the six accused rangers grab the courtroom's chairs and break them into toothpicks. They then grabbed the three counsel tables and smashed them, then pulled their guns and started to shoot up the courtroom.

More than a dozen noisy shots deafened those left in the courtroom. Horace laughed at the commotion. Fancy-pants would never be the same after this. Dusty sunlight pushed its way through the courtroom's new ventilation holes.

Judge Burrill peeked out from behind his bench. Horace figured he'd been hiding in a fetal position scared to death. A foul odor like rotten eggs began to fill the air. Finally the judge emerged and struck the bench with his gavel as hard as he could to regain courtroom composure.

Horace yelled, "Okay, men, put your guns back into their holsters!" The courtroom was filled with enough holes already.

The shooting stopped. The rangers let the judge announce his judgment.

"Shoot away, damn you all to hell!" the judge declared. "Damn you marshal, too! All cases dismissed due to lack of evidence!" The judge slammed the gavel for the last time and left the bench and courtroom.

All the Rangers shouted, "Yahoo!"

Vasquez peered into the courtroom after the shooting stopped and said to himself out loud, "Esta bien. Now I won't be the fancy marshal's damn slave."

Then he looked directly at Horace. "And Flores was a fool to waste your fancyDona. I would have kidnaped her and spread her legs anytime I chose. They all love me, the Donas, you loser gringo ranger."

Horace glared back at him and reached in his pocket for Jacinta's strand-of-hair gold locket. He stroked the shiny metal and ignored the remark. He knew Vasquez would be in court again.

Chapter 2

Sheriff Tomas Sanchez watched the Arkansas marshal signing papers to resign. The dethroned marshal would be hooted until he left town or turned into a plain drunk. Sanchez feared the latter. Fancy-pants brought the tally to three marshals in one year that had left office by various means. The first had absconded with the city tax money and had run. The second had been killed in a gunfight. Sanchez now faced even more gun battles with ex-miners and no-counts until the next marshal took office. He was in his second year as sheriff. With the marshal's office vacant once more, he'd have to assume city duties together with his county ones. In three city gunfights the past year, he'd won all of them and buried two on his grandfather's rental street, the infamous Nigger Alley. His Sheriff's job was a dirty one, but someone had to be brave, crazy, or just love the excitement. He knew in his case, it was probably all three.

His sisters now owned all twelve lucrative vice-filled rentals on the Alley, four loaded whorehouses, four packed saloons, and four crammed card houses, all paying high rents. Recent visitors Mark Twain and J. Ross Browne had summed up their experience in Los Angeles by saying, "L.A. pueblo is all gambling, drinking, and whoring." Sanchez smiled to himself at the thought of his city's fine reputation. Twain and Browne must have had a wonderful time.

Now with the marshal business out of the way, he rubbed his close-cut black beard. He approvingly noted his reflection in his office mirror. His high-Spanish light complexion contrasted handsomely with his dark hair and brown eyes. He nudged his chin up to make his six-foot frame look taller. He presented a damn big target. Too big. He briefly touched the crucifix on the crude wall and said a quick prayer.

"Sheriff," Deputy Warren said through the cracked office door, "somebody hit the San Rafael Rancho and drove off their workin' horses."

"Get us a ranger posse. We ride in twenty minutes," Tomas said. He was ready to instruct the men once they assembled in front of him.

Tomas looked over his posse. He was glad to see Horace and Bean. Just as they had in the past, they would find the horse thieves and make the arrests.

They rode north and took the road toward the Encino Rancho. Sanchez and Horace figured the crooks would head through the Simi Rancho toward the ocean. Sergeant Bean had agreed. They took a calculated guess backed up by the horse tracks left early the prior morning. Tomas hoped they were right.

"Tomas, it's easy for the thieves to escape unnoticed through these San Fernando Mission lands because they're so vast," Horace commented during the chase.

"Jes, Horace," Sanchez agreed, "over 200,000 acres."

Eight hours later they had passed the Encino and approached a small 1,150-acre rancho called El Escorpion owned by an Indian named Odon. There they watered their horses and asked Odon if he had seen any horse drivers. His vaquerotold Tomas many horses had passed just north of their rancho. The horse thieves had moved their stolen horses toward the west and the ocean. They could have escaped inland through the El Cajon Pass by San Bernardino, but Tomas and Horace had guessed right. The thieves wanted to avoid the Tulare inland Indians and the army at Fort Tejon.

The rangers tracked down the criminals near Santa Barbara County camped by the Santa Clara River. Tomas told Horace to flank them on the west while he and the rest of the rangers would rush them from the hill. Horace and his men were in position. The signal was given. Horace rushed the men. Seeing they were surrounded, the men dropped their weapons.

"Put your hands up, you damn Mex!" Bean yelled.

"Don't move or you're dead meat!" another ranger yelled.

Five Mexicans stood by their horses with their hands high in the air. Sanchez recognized the group leader.

"Well, surprise, surprise. It's Senor Vasquez and the four court Mexes. Who's the loser now?" Horace said, looking at Vasquez.

Sanchez glanced at Horace.

"Damn rangers," Vasquez said under his breath.

Sanchez watched the rangers tie the five Mexicans' hands. So like others before him, Vasquez had graduated from petty theft to horse rustling, a common trend among the criminals, moving into bigger and better crimes. Oh well. It gave the attorneys and judges something to do back at the pueblo. Sanchez wondered if Horace would be Vasquez's court-appointed attorney. The rangers helped the Mexicans onto the horses and they headed back toward the pueblo.

Tiburcio Vasquez rode silently on the return trip. He thought about his past in Monterey, California. His three brothers and two sisters called him the family outlaw. His mission-school English education had given him the ability to read and write. When he was thirteen, the Americans had won the Mexican-American War, but he'd been too young to fight. He loved the stories of Robin Hood living in the countryside and upsetting the status quo. He wanted to fight the new American ways.

He had turned toward the wicked side when a gringo had raped the woman he loved. The man had escaped, and Vasquez wanted revenge. His Dona was ruined emotionally. He dreamed of becoming a desperado. He had tried to steal things at the general store, once, twice, three times; then they'd caught him. The new Monterey marshal had called him a dumb Mex that needed a spanking. Later he and his friends had killed a Monterey constable named Hardmount. The gringoshad caught and hanged Jose Higuerra for the crime. Vasquez laughed inwardly at the dumb L.A. Rangers bringing him in for horse theft. If they only knew of his murderous past.

Poor young, dumb Higuerra got caught. Even Clodoveo Chavez had had enough brains to escape into Mexico. Chavez was his favorite, almost like a brother to him. Above all he wished Chavez had not left him. Perhaps one day Chavez would return. Vasquez and Anastacio Garcia had escaped together. Now at twenty-two riding into the pueblo, Vasquez faced many years in San Quentin Prison. Crap. Next time he would try to be where they ain't.

The person he would miss the most was Maria, his lover and mother to his daughter. Maria was pregnant again. She was so beautiful and full of life. They would ride in the high Los Angeles mountains together. The picnics at the lake, the closeness, the kissing and the wild lovemaking, all was now a fleeting memory.

Would Maria have a boy? Would they ever be the same with him locked up for years? His decisions had separated them. Someday he would return to Elizabeth Lake in the mountains and visit his two children. Right now that was his secret, and nobody else would ever know.

The next morning came too quickly. "Wake up, Vasquez. It's prison payback time, ya damn horse thief," the pueblo jailer said as he undid the leg irons from the huge staple on the twenty-foot jail log. He added an extra kick to the ass to get Vasquez up in a hurry. Nice personal touch, asshole. Vasquez rubbed his hands over his face.

In court, Vasquez recognized Judge Burrill and wondered how he would sentence him. Attorney Horace Bell was in court filing papers with the clerk. They would probably appoint this ranger-attorney to represent him. Must be what the Americans called a "kangaroo court." Some justice.

"Bell, you're appointed to represent that there -- Tiburcio Vasquez," Judge Burrill said from the bench as he pointed.

"My pleasure, your Honor," Horace said, looking Vasquez's way.

Horace walked over to Vasquez and sat down facing him. Now Vasquez would have to hear his line of bullshit. He wasn't about to start trusting a gringo lawyer, much less a damn ranger one. He had heard in jail that his crime would draw a ten-year sentence. His old friend, Anastacio Garcia, was already a San Quentin inmate.

"Vasquez, look. I don't care if they lock you up and throw away the damn key," Horace said, rubbing his hair back, "but as your lawyer I have to advise you that your future depends on what you do now."

"What I do?" Vasquez asked.

"Sure. We caught you cold."

"Bueno for you. So what can I do?"

"This judge hates trials. It takes too much time."

"Tell him to dismiss my case, then, like the last time." Vasquez looked down and rubbed his hands over his face.

Horace smiled. "No, it won't work that way this time. You should just plead guilty."

"Si?"

"If you plead guilty, you'll get five instead of ten years in prison."

"Burrill will give me half the time?"

"That's it exactly."

"This is on the level, not because you're in on it?"

"Take the five or go to trial, be a loser, and take ten up your ass." Horace saw images of Vasquez ravaging Jacinta, his lost love.

"Okay. I'll do the five, Mr. Ranger-Attorney, but no more. No damn horse is worth five anyway."

Vasquez laughed to himself. This ranger was pretty dumb. After all, wasn't he getting off easy considering the hidden crimes he'd already committed? The damn gringos thought they knew everything.

Chapter 3

Horace raised his blue eyes toward the dirt street as he sat in his white adobe law office. His young law practice now had a mixture of cases. His clients varied from the Mexican rancho owners to criminal clients who threatened and insulted him. Wonderful.

He worked on a case for his uncle regarding a property boundary encroachment. He looked at this encroachment every day as he lived at his uncle's in a second-story bedroom. He looked at his law books, one of the few sets in the pueblo, and became bored. He shifted his large frame in the massive Spanish chair. He rubbed his hair back and thought about a cup of coffee.

Outside, he patted his horse Pal and gave him a sugar lump. Pal snorted back, and Horace laughed.

"Let's go see an old friend, Pal."

Pal seemed to need the quick romp three blocks north to Paulette Bovierre's café. Pal's dust cloud billowed behind as Horace played the race jockey. He wondered if he would ever grow up, for he loved the action. Black storm clouds filled the entire sky from the ocean to the mountains. The pueblo was in the center of the storm's eye. The ominous signs in the heavens did not bode well for the next few days.

He tied up Pal, gave him another lump, smiled, and entered the French restaurant. Poor Paulette. They used to be almost lovers. Now they were good friends. He knew he would never want to face her anger if she had her rapier in hand. She was definitely the best in the pueblo with a fencing sword. Besides, he needed to look at a beautiful, full-figured lady to reignite his motivation. Her green French eyes sparkled as he entered.

"Oui, good morning, Horace. I'll get you a cup of coffee."

"Good morning, Paulette. Thank you," Horace said as he looked around the restaurant. His acquired habit of being observant had saved him from bodily harm. The café was empty as he suspected it would be. All four tables were cleared of breakfast dishes, and their fancy tablecloths were in place for lunch. By noon the judges, attorneys, and Dons would fill the tables for the best food in town.

"Oui. Can you believe those black clouds?"

"Yup. We're in the forefront of a mean storm."

Pal whinnied as a lightning bolt lit up the windows. A second later a loud thunderclap shook the café. Then the rain started, first light, then medium. Moments later the drops made each puddle explode.

Horace quickly finished his coffee and looked outside. Pal was already up to his ankles in water. Outside the morning appeared as a moonless, dark night. Then it started to increase like a monsoon, something he had read about where the rain fell in huge drops up to three inches an hour. This was bad. Pal appeared nervous. He kept lifting his feet as if by doing so, the water would leave. Then the café door slammed open.

"Horace, I've just heard that the Zanja Madre is flooded," the voice said.

Horace looked over to see his friend, Tomas Sanchez.

"That means the main L.A. River is in trouble," Horace said abruptly.

"This is a mean one, Horace. I need all the Rangers to help out."

"I'll call up my C Troop and notify the others," Horace said.

"Horace, meet me at the sheriff's office in fifteen minutes." Tomas said as he left. Horace could see he was concerned. Tomas Sanchez was never afraid.

"This is gonna be a tough one, Paulette. You prepare for the worst."

"Horace, you be careful out there. Come back to me." Then she nodded and gave him a can-do smile.

Horace went to the rangers barracks and ordered two men to notify his troop. The rest, under their current commander, went to the sheriff's office and were assigned duties. Horace waited ten minutes for as many of the troops that would show. He left with five men.

"Damn, Horace, I was just about to git a good pokin' at the Red Light," Bean said.

"Hold your pants on, my friend. They might get wet," Horace said with a smile. All Bean could think about was a three-dollar whore.

"Yeah, but they had a new blond Mex there..."

"A Blondie, huh? Well, she'll wait."

"But I wanted to beat you to Blondie."

"We'll see," Horace teased.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Bean said, disheartened.

Sheriff Sanchez told the rangers to work in pairs. The problems would be flooding, looters, robbers, and people drowning. Horace asked Bean to work with him. They rode for the upper Los Angeles River.

When they were ten miles north, they saw the river had crested. They had to ride back south to warn the folks downstream. Thank God they both had strong horses. Their rain gear was soaked and all their clothes were wet. Horace rubbed his cold, wet hair back. He smiled. He saw this as a fight against nature. In another way he felt scared for the people. They might make mistakes which would cost them their lives.

Roy Bean thought it was crazy to be out in this muck. He could find a nice warm place for his little bean. He should call it his big bean. He might slip one day and they would kid him until the next century. Be a hell of a lot better than this damn cold predicament with this crazy friend of his. The problem he had was that he would rather be drinking than saving the world. Yes, he was not a Spanish knight in shining armor. No, he was a drinking son-of-a-gun. And frankly with all this cold water, a nice warm whiskey bottle sounded real good

They made it back to the Boyle Heights area. There they could see Los Angeles through the sheets of the downpour. Horace saw a family trapped on their roof. He could never stand to be trapped. He kicked his huge horse down a forty-foot muddy slope.

"Oh, shit, Horace! I'm behind you, ya damn fool!" Bean yelled to be heard.

Pal slid feet first as Horace hung on with all his strength. The river already stood about four feet higher than normal. Large, wicked wind swells made the dirty brown water appear unforgiving. Waves whacked the roof. The family appeared scared to their very souls. Horace wanted to avoid their judgment day. Pal used all his strength to cross the river in spite of the tugging current. Horace hoped the horse would not fail him.

"Damn you, Horace, you're gonna get my ass drowned!" Bean shouted.

"Quit complaining," Horace yelled back to Bean. "You're about to become famous."

"Yeah? Well, I know where I'd rather be right now."

"That's why I've got your ass out here. You'll slip, and I'll be first."

"The hell, you say," Bean said as he kicked his horse through the river to rescue the family.

The father, the wife, and two small girls around five years old clung to their roof. Horace felt Pal as he both swam and walked toward the structure. Pal got close, and Horace grabbed the wife and the girls. Pal grunted. Horace grunted too.

"Bean, get the gentleman," Horace said.

"Thank you, sir," said the girls and the wife.

They deposited the family on high ground near a barn that was already in receipt of many families huddled around a humble, smoldering fire. It looked mighty comfy to Horace.

"How 'bout a drink and a rest?" Bean said.

"Sergeant, mount up," Horace said with a half smile.

Horace rode out and glanced behind him. Loyal Roy Bean was in lockstep with a glum face.

At the muddy river bank, three children screamed for help. The river was more dangerous now, as it had added another foot. The two girls and a boy were holding on to a dead log while the water swept them down river.

"Oh, the hell with it! Let's get 'em, Pal!" Horace yelled.

The massive animal dived in and swam using all the strength from his champion bloodlines. The river had formed into wind waves and swells together with dried wood debris. Logs slammed into Horace and Pal and cut them. Red blood mixed with brown water oozed down Horace's arm. His clothes were ripping off him. Horace knew Bean's horse was not as strong as Pal. Bean rode above the flood plain keeping up with Horace in the river.

Pal moved faster than the children on the log. Soon they were twenty feet away. Horace broke out his rope and at ten feet threw it over a protruding three-foot branch. The thump of the tug startled Pal as his saddle horn seized the pressure. Pal snorted.

"Swim for the shore, over there!" he ordered the horse, turning the reins abruptly.

The animal's strength amazed Horace as the horse strained every muscle to save the three children. Pal swam, walked, struggled, and groaned. Pal leaned into the muddy riverbank and pulled the log to safety. Horace hugged the crying children and led them to a nearby farmhouse.

He returned to see Bean across the river pointing to a small floating cabin heading toward them. A farmer with his wife and child rode on top. Muscular Pal never hesitated. Splash! They once again were in the mucky water.

Horace saw Bean up ahead where the river narrowed. Bean swung his rope to lasso the cabin. Whish! The rope caught the roof, and a large thud echoed back to Horace as he saw the wife and child lose their grip and fall into the river.

"Let's go, Pal!" The horse reacted with tremendous strength and swam to catch up with the pair. Horace threw the woman his rope. As she grasped at it, he pulled her behind him and tried for the young daughter.

"She's only four!" the woman wailed.

Horace knew he was trapped. The river was narrowing and becoming faster. The child's innocent blue eyes begged for mercy. He only had one opportunity to save the young girl. He pushed Pal to his limit. Only three feet from her, he tried to grab her. Her eyes were terrified. He missed as her body churned upside down and disappeared into the ugly swirl.

Horace knew he and Bean had performed admirably, they had saved many, but he would never forget the one with the blue eyes that begged for mercy. They would never beg again. She reminded him of his innocent lost love.

He held back his emotions, used his wet sleeve on his eyes, and said a prayer for the child. He escaped up the river bank and rejoined Bean and the child's parents, whose eyes looked toward the sweeping river.

The water moved higher until the river's twelve-foot banks were bested. Horace, Bean, the parents, and the horses perched together on a high piece of ground.

"I'm sorry about the young girl," Horace said, rubbing his wet hair back and hoping the rain on his face would hide his tears.

The parents nodded.

"We'll be stuck here for awhile, folks," Bean said grimly.

After two days, they crossed the river, now receded to four feet deep. Horace and Bean left the husband and wife upriver with friends. On the way back to the pueblo they counted many bloated, decomposing cattle and horses on the riverbanks and saw acres of leveled corn, lettuce, and melon crops. Vineyards were completely wiped out, and fruit trees were stripped bare. The storm had decimated everything in its wake.

Dirty and cold and hungry, Horace led the way into the sheriff's office to check in.

"Well, now, here are the heros. They saved nine that we know of," Sheriff Sanchez said, grinning as they

came through the door.

"Give the credit to Bell's horse there," Bean said, pointing to mud-caked Pal and twisting his moustache at the same time. "The damn thing's got supernatural strength."

"Where's the coffee and food?" Horace asked.

"We made up the reports. Horace, take that drowned rat Bean over to Bovierre's Café," Tomas said.

"See what happens when you're second in command? They call you a wet rat," Bean grumbled.

"He might have something there. Time to eat, Sergeant Bean," Horace said.

"My ass. You and your stomach. There's somethin' I need to see first, a little Miss Blondie," Bean said.

"First, Sergeant Rat, let's go float up to the café," Horace said, rubbing his matted hair back.

Through the windows, they saw Paulette putting out the last tablecloth for lunch. A light rain still penetrated the muted sunlight. The pueblo's streets were muddier than their usual attire, but the high-ground site of the town spared it much devastation.

Horace opened the café door, and Bean went in first. Four tables were now complete, each with four place settings. Paulette placed a small vase with a single red flower at each table. Horace could never get the flower's name right. Heck. At the moment it didn't seem too significant.

Bean twirled a chair around and straddled it. He looked at Miss Paulette Bovierre. She twisted the ends of her long light brown hair. The sunlight through the café windows gave her an angelic look. Her emerald green eyes flashed at the two men. She smiled.

"She looks better than Blondie," Bean said.

"I figured that, Mr. Rat," Horace said with a hint of a smile, impatient to eat.

"Coffee, boys?" Paulette said, bringing two cups to their table and pouring.

"Yes, please," Horace said quickly before Bean opened his mouth to change feet. "And some of that great food, Miss Paulette. We're starving."

"The whole town is talking about you two heros, saving nine, oui?" Paulette said, her lips flirtatious.

"I'm pretty good," Bean said, twitching his handlebar moustache.

"Yes, Mr. Bean, but I hear that Horace and Pal did most of the saving."

"I was right behind."

"Bean was there when it counted," Horace said.

Roy nodded. Horace saw him smile like he appreciated Horace's comment.

Paulette went to the kitchen and returned with two full plates of chicken, rice and beans, and roasted corn. Bean slurped his coffee. Paulette made a face like she was watching a pig eat. Horace chuckled. Bean's eyes looked up and wondered what was so funny. Horace and Paulette both smiled at one another. Horace remembered his old feeling for her. He needed to change the subject.

"That flood will really hurt the pueblo," Horace said between gulps of food.

"Oui, no banks, no insurance companies, cattle and horses dead by the hundreds," Paulette said, shaking her head. "I heard about the poor little girl."

Horace nodded but kept his head downward and focused on his food. Two days had passed since her drowning, but the incident still upset him. Images of panic, helplessness, and death overtook his emotions.

"Bet the sheriff has to lower the county taxes," Horace said, trying to stay in the conversation.

"I have to git outta here quick 'cause I have a date," Bean said, eating fast.

"How about you, Horace? Do you have a date?" Paulette said.

"Only to share a little time with you," Horace said.

Paulette smiled. Her light, reddish-brown hair glistened in the struggling sunlight.

Bean looked sheepishly at Horace and asked, "Did you really want to beat me to Bl ondie?"

"Roy, you win. Go ride the yellow-haired mare, partner!" he said, slapping him on the back. Bean sure had a knack for lightening up the mood.

Horace rubbed his hair back and leaned into his chair as he looked up at his beautiful friend. Roy ran out.