[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (13 page)

Mike lay on his stomach near the chopping log. He tried to arise, but he could do no more than push up on one elbow, then slump back. Rusty saw blood spreading across the back of Mike's old shirt and staining the wood chips upon which he lay. The ax was beside him where he had dropped it as he fell.

Rusty fought to keep from crying. "I'll get you to the house." Mike cried out in pain as Rusty tried to lift him. Rusty eased him onto his back, placing Mike's hat beneath his head.

"Don't move me no more. Don't move me."

"You'll bleed to death if I don't get this blood stopped."

"Won't do no good. Son of a bitch, he's a better shot than I thought." Mike coughed up blood.

"It was Isaac York, wasn't it?"

"Didn't see." Mike's voice dropped to a whisper. "If he'd only made it a fair fight ..." He reached out. Rusty took his hand. Mike gasped, trying to speak.

Whatever he wanted to say, it died with him.

Eyes afire, Rusty bent over his foster father and cried as he had when Mother Dora died.

A cold realization gradually crept over him while he knelt, gripping Mike's lifeless hand. It staggered him as he absorbed its full import. So far as he knew, he had no blood kin, not anywhere. He did not even know who he really was, and it was improbable that he ever would. Now the couple who had given him a name and a home and the security of their love had been taken from him.

For the second time in his life, he was alone.

* * *

Rusty was disappointed at the small number of neighbors who came to pay their final respects to Mike. He had not fully realized the deep feelings many people held about secession, or how much they had resented Mike's firm stance against it. For some, his record as a ranger and the many times he had volunteered his strong arms for service to the community were not enough to erase the stain of his political leanings.

Rusty told Preacher Webb, "Now I can see who his true friends were."

"Don't blame them too much. We may be lookin' at a war, and war takes a hard toll on friendships. If this one comes to pass, it may even break up families. The Mike we knew couldn't deny his true convictions. You wouldn't have wanted him to."

"I would if it could've saved his life."

"You'd have lost respect for him, and he'd have lost respect for himself."

"Nothin' is worth somebody murderin' him." Rusty cast a dark look toward the sheriff, who stood at the edge of the small gathering, gesturing broadly as he expressed his opinion that Texas should cut loose as soon as possible. "
He
don't seem any too concerned over catchin' Isaac York and bringin' him in."

"There isn't any proof that Isaac did it."

"Who else would've? You were there. You helped break up the fight between him and Dad. And he's not here for the funeral. He's afraid to come because he knows I know he's guilty. So do lots of folks, whether they'll admit it or not."

"Several other neighbors aren't here either, but that doesn't mean they murdered Mike."

The sheriff caught enough of the conversation to arouse his interest. He walked up to Rusty, his face burdened by a deep frown. "Son, you've got a right to be upset, but you've got no right to accuse anybody without you can show proof. You got that proof?"

"I didn't see him, but I know. I think you know, too."

"If I'd always really known half as much as I thought I did, I'd be the smartest man in "Texas. We're here to bury your daddy, not to set off another killin'. And that's what it'll lead to if you keep makin' accusations. It'll come down to you or him, and I'd have to lay my bet on him."

Rusty knew his resentment showed, and he didn't care. Mike wouldn't have, either. But he said no more, and the sheriff turned away to resume his lecture on politics. He had a receptive audience. Just about everybody here was ready to cut ties with the union.

Despite their political feelings, a few friends like Tom Blessing from around the settlement had come to be with Rusty when word spread about Mike's death. Blessing and a couple of others had dug the grave while Rusty and Preacher Webb fashioned a coffin out of rough-cut pine torn from the side of the cow barn. There had been no extra lumber lying around. It cost too much to waste.

Rusty stood numb at the graveside, unable to absorb all of Webb's eulogy, the recounting of Mike's brave deeds and exploits, of his and Dora's devotion to one another, of their unselfishness in taking an orphaned boy to raise as their own. Rusty's mind ranged back to the earliest events he could remember with any clarity. Always, it seemed, Daddy Mike and Mother Dora had been there to pick him up when he fell, to encourage him when he faltered, to cheer him when he did something well. Blood kin could have done no more.

Carried back in time by his memories, he did not hear the minister call for a closing prayer. He did not bow his head until he blinked his eyes clear of tears and saw that the others were all looking downward.

A strong arm fell upon his shoulder. Tom Blessing stood beside him, sorrow in his light blue eyes. "Son, it'd do you good to get away from this place for a while. I've got a job for you."

Rusty coughed his throat clear. Blessing had tried to send Daddy Mike away to keep him from harm until the secession fever subsided. Now he had the same idea, except this time it was to put distance between Rusty and Isaac York. "What'd become of this place?"

"It does a field good to lie fallow a year or two and rest, same as it helps a man to pause in his labor now and again to give thanks for the Lord's bounty. The place won't go anywhere. It'll still be here when you come back."

"I've got a thing or two that needs doin' first."

"You're thinkin' of Isaac York. I can tell by the look in your eyes. Forget that. Come to my house, and come prepared to travel."

While the grave was being filled in, the visitors began to drift away. Preacher Webb waited. He talked quietly to first one and then another but did not take his eyes from Rusty for long.

Fowler Gaskin had surprised Rusty by coming to the funeral though without his two sons. He hung back until almost the last, then approached Rusty, his voice tentative. "Boy, I hate to be askin' you at a time such as this, but I know Mike's clothes won't fit you. I was wonderin' if you was of a mind to give some of them away? I sure could use a good winter coat."

The audacity of the man caught Rusty standing on his left foot. "The dirt hasn't even settled over his grave and you've already come scavengin'. Get the hell out of my sight, Fowler!"

Gaskin backed off. "Just felt like I ought to ask before somebody else comes along and carries everything away. After all, me and your daddy been neighbors a long time."

"A lot too long."

Gaskin gave Rusty a hard look while he mounted his slab-sided old mule. He kicked the mule vigorously and rode off, mumbling.

Rusty noticed Webb watching closely. The minister said, "First time the Gaskins catch you gone, they'll help themselves to whatever they want of Mike's stuff."

Rusty had not thought of that. "We'll head them off. You probably know some poor folks who could use Dad's clothes."

"They'll be grateful to you." Webb's expression darkened. "I heard you tell Tom Blessing you have somethin' to do before you leave. I don't like the sound of that."

"Would you have me turn my back on what happened to Dad?"

"Better than to do somethin' you might be sorry for the rest of your life."

"I won't be sorry."

* * *

The Isaac York place lay north and a bit west of the cotton gin and general store that were the nucleus of the settlement. Rusty had been there just once, when Mike was trying to trade mules. York had been half drunk, and the black man Shanty had done most of the dickering for him. It had struck Rusty odd, seeing a man supposed to be a slave assuming that kind of responsibility for his owner. Mike had not been one to take advantage of a drunk, but even if he had, Shanty had been too sharp a trader to let him get away with it.

Rusty had hardly slept last night, trying to decide what his course should be. By rights he should shoot York down like a dog, but he would not shoot him in the back. He would prefer that York be looking at him, knowing what was coming and why.

As he rode he kept turning over the options in his mind. Maybe he would not shoot York at all but instead force him to confess, then stand back and let the law hang him. Hanging was a more fitting death under the circumstances. A bullet ended things too quickly. Still, there was always the chance that the law would not mete out the punishment York deserved. After all, Mike had been a union sympathizer, and the community was strongly pro-Confederacy.

The longer Rusty pondered, the less sure he was about what he would do. But he felt that when he got there he would know. Mike had always said that when the time came to act, most men knew instinctively what to do.

"Trust me," he had advised, "and if I ain't there, trust yourself. You'll know what's right."

Rusty went suddenly short of breath as he rounded the winter-bared cotton field and saw the cabin ahead. Trembling, he reined up and drew Mike's old pistol from its scabbard to recheck the load. He had never fired the pistol much and did not fully trust it. He liked a rifle, for he could hit anything he saw over its sights. A pistol, extended at arm's length, seemed unwieldy and felt heavier than a rifle, though it was not.

He started for the cabin but changed course when he saw York seated on a wooden stool beside the door of a log shed, soaking up the meager winter sunshine. York raised a jug on the crook of his arm and drank.

Drunk, like as not
, Rusty thought, disappointed. He had hoped to find York sober and able to understand fully what was happening. On the other hand, if he was drunk he might not have his guard up. It might be easier to draw a confession out of him.

Rusty dismounted twenty feet from York and drew the pistol. York blinked, trying to clear his eyes. "Who are you?"

"You know me. I'm Rusty Shannon."

"I can't quite make you out." York kept blinking. He was too drunk to see straight.

Rusty seethed. "YOU were seein' all right when you shot Mike Shannon. I'm here to make you pay for it."

The slave Shanty stepped out of the shed, staring with wide eyes at the pistol. "Please, boy, put that thing away."

York pushed to his feet but swayed and braced one hand against the shed wall. "You sayin' I shot Mike? How could I? I been drunk for three, four days."

"Not too drunk to shoot him in the back. And you'll admit it, or I'll shoot you where you stand."

A firm voice said, "No you won't."

Rusty turned quickly. Preacher Webb and Tom Blessing stood behind him. Webb reached out. "Give me the pistol. You're too young to get yourself in this kind of trouble."

Rusty was too surprised to move. Webb quickly gripped the pistol and pushed the muzzle down, then gave it a twist that wrested the weapon from Rusty's hand. "I was afraid you'd take a notion to do this."

Rusty choked from frustration. "He's got it comin'."

Blessing said, "You have no proof. He says he's been too drunk to leave the place. Shanty yonder backs him up."

The black man nodded, relieved that the pistol had not been fired.

"What else could Shanty say? Isaac owns him."

Blessing said, "I'll admit that from the looks of things you could be right. Isaac and Mike both left mad after their fight broke up. But these are bitter times, and there's other people around who didn't like Mike's politics. You can't kill a man on suspicion."

"That's more than he killed Mike for." Shaking with anger, Rusty reached for the pistol. Webb turned, keeping it from him.

Blessing said, "Settle down, son. I promise you we'll look into Mike's killin'. If we find proof that Isaac did it, he'll pay. But that's not for you to do, it's for the law."

"I talked to the law yesterday. The sheriff won't do a damned thing. He as much as told me so."

Webb said, "Have faith, lad. The Lord finds His own way to punish the evildoer. If it was Isaac, he'll settle accounts with the Almighty. If it wasn't ... you wouldn't want an innocent man to burden your conscience as long as you live."

"I've got no faith in the law, and not a hell of a lot in the Almighty. How come He wasn't watchin' over Daddy Mike?"

"It's not for us to understand His ways."

"I sure don't. If he really punishes the evildoers, how do we know he didn't send me here to strike Isaac down?"

"He wouldn't have let us stop you."

Blessing laid his heavy arm on Rusty's shoulder, as he had yesterday. "I told you before, you need to get away for a while. Let things here take their own course. That job I tried to give Mike ... it's still waitin'."

"Job?" Rusty was too upset to remember. "What job?"

"South of the Red, in a minuteman company scoutin' for Indian sign. Turnin' them back if they cross into Texas. The boys are shorthanded up there."

Rusty glared at Isaac. "What about
him?
"

"He won't be goin' anywhere. If it's proved that he killed Mike, he'll still be here when you come back. Or hung."

It wasn't enough. Rusty wanted him to pay now. But he could see that it was not to be. Even if York went on trial, chances were strong that a secessionist jury would acquit him. "You're tryin' to protect him. That's why you want me gone."

"We're tryin' to protect you from yourself, and maybe from some others. There was hard feelin' against Mike. Some of that feelin' is bound to be laid over onto you. It's best for you and everybody else if you're not seen around here 'til this secession business quiets down."

Rusty could not take his gaze away from York. Shanty stepped protectively in front of his owner.

Reluctantly Rusty shrugged. "All right, I'll go. Do I get my pistol back?"

A flicker of a smile crossed Webb's face. "I'll ride along part of the way with you and give your pistol back when I feel like it's safe."

"Isaac York won't be safe 'til he's dead."