North From Babylon

A hot sticky Texas dawn was rising over the Pecos River and three hundred miles away in the New Mexico Territory the ragged but majestic outline of the Sacramento Mountains could just be made out emerging from a watery grey new daylight.  On a low ridge above the river four riders sat astride their mounts scanning the far bank for any signs of hostile life.  Captain Frank McKinley of the Texas Rangers took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, he flipped open the lid, and raised his free hand to shade his eyes against the glaring golden orb that was rising in the east and stared at the watch’s dial.  It was only five thirty four but by hell it was hot.  McKinley unknotted a large greasy sweat grimed red kerchief from around his neck.  He turned in his saddle to look at the Rangers grouped behind him; he smiled as he wiped the sweat from his throat and face, both of which were weathered nut brown by the sun.

‘Well boys, I guess daylight is aburning!’

The three rangers smiled at each other, they knew what he was going to say, because they had heard it a thousand times before.  They heard him say it at Harpers Ferry in 59, and again as they retreated from Gettysburg.  During the recent Civil War they had all fought for the Confederate cause in a horse troop under the command of, the then, Major McKinley.  After the Union’s victory in 1865 they followed their leader back home and into the employment of the Texas Rangers.  The job was hard, tough and dangerous, and so were the men that did it.