[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (36 page)

The cabin looked black against the moonlight, and Rusty feared it had been burned. Nearing it, however, he realized he had been fooled by the deep shadow. The cabin was intact. Motioning for the others to stay a safe distance behind, he put Alamo into a walk and carefully approached the house. He listened for sounds of life, but the place was silent as a tomb.

He wished he knew how he could shout quietly. The last thing he wanted to do was make a lot of noise. "Anybody home?" he called.

No one answered. He felt a chill, fearing the worst. Perhaps the Indians had already visited. If they had been here, they almost certainly had struck other farms to the east, including his own. He moved to the door, where he found a piece of paper held down by a bent nail. He could not read it in the shadow, so he tore it off and held it up to let the moon's light fall upon it.

It said,
Indian sign. Gone to Shannon place
.

He swung back into the saddle and carried the note to Whitfield, telling him what it said so the captain would not have to waste time trying to read it in the moonlight.

Whitfield grunted. "Then let's go to the Shannon place, too."

By the stars Rusty guessed it was midnight or a little later by the time they reached there. He agonized all the way, fearing that he would find the place in charred ruins, its occupants slaughtered. Somewhat to his surprise he found himself whispering a prayer. As he rode in, James close beside him, he saw that the cabin was dark but intact. A large number of horses were held in a corral.

The Indians had not struck here. Not yet, at least.

"Thank God," Rusty said in a husky voice.

James responded, "I thank Him, too. I sure as hell do."

A shot was fired from the far side of the corral. A sentry's warning, Rusty surmised.

"Hold on," he shouted. "We're comin' in."

He recognized the distant voice as Vince Purdy's. "Who's out there?"

"It's me, Rusty Shannon. With some rangers."

"Well, come on in, and welcome. We've been expectin' company, but not you."

Several men materialized from the shadows, carrying rifles. Rusty realized that several neighbors had come together for mutual protection. Purdy pumped Rusty's hand, then hugged his grandson. "Preacher Webb told us you'd rode for help. But it's liable to cost you, son."

Rusty said, "He came here under arrest. Where's the preacher?"

"He rode on to warn others. Said he was goin' to Tom Blessing's first so Tom could help him spread the word. He ain't been back, and we been worried about him. From the sign he showed us down on the river, there was a war party came by here a couple of nights ago. They could've taken us then. We wouldn't've known they was around 'til they was on top of us."

"They were savin' you for their return trip."

"That's the way we see it. If it hadn't been for Preacher Webb, no tellin' what might've happened."

"It still could."

"But now they won't catch us by surprise. We're fixed to give them a dandy scrap."

James asked urgently, "Is everybody all right? Mama and them?"

"Your mama's made out of rawhide. That bullet slowed her down a little, but it was a long way from killin' her."

James turned back to the captain. "I'm goin' up to the house to see my folks. Any objections?"

Rusty said, "I'll go with him." He tried to make it sound as if he were volunteering out of a sense of duty.

"Go ahead. We'll set up camp at the corrals. There won't be any horses stolen out of here tonight."

Purdy went ahead to awaken the family. Clemmie and Geneva came out onto the dog run so quickly that Rusty doubted they had ever gone to bed. With the threat of a raid hanging over them, they probably could not sleep in any case. Clemmie clasped her son in her arms and wept.

"Preacher Webb said he'd fetch you down here when he could. We didn't figure on it bein' this way." She raised her gaze to Rusty. "You got him under arrest?"

"The captain has."

She said to James, "You could take your horse and lose yourself in the timber down by the river. You could be far gone by daylight."

"I'm ridin' a ranger horse, Mama, and he's plumb give out from the trip."

"There's plenty of fresh ones in the corral."

"And bunch of men there to see that I don't take any of them. No, I'm stayin' here 'til we know the Indian trouble is over with."

Geneva took Rusty's hand and eased him off the back side of the dog run, into the shadow. She leaned to him and kissed him. "I was hopin' you'd come. I've missed you."

"It hasn't been all that terrible long since I left here."

"I was already missin' you while I watched you ride away."

Tanner came along after a while. "Captain says he'd like to see you and James Monahan down at the corral. Says you belong with the rest of the company." He gave Geneva a moment's quiet study. "Sorry to pull him away."

She said, "We can sleep now, knowin' the rangers are here."

Tanner smiled. "I expect just one of them would've done, provided it was the right one."

As he started to leave, Rusty heard a groan of complaint coming from a dark shape lying beside the cabin. A querulous voice complained, "A body can't get no sleep around here, people talkin' loud all the time."

The voice was Fowler Gaskin's.

Purdy walked with James and Rusty and Tanner. He said, "Fowler was the first one to come here after word got out about the Indians. He was scared to stay by himself down yonder in his cabin."

Rusty warned, "He won't leave 'til you run him off with a club."

"You've got to feel sorry for him. Word came a few days ago that both of his boys been killed."

"Eph and Luke? I never thought the army could get them that close to the fightin'."

Purdy looked back to be sure no one else could hear. "They told the old man the boys died in battle, but Tom Blessing whispered in my ear that it wasn't that way atall. They got in a fight over two French women in a New Orleans fancy house. That was the nearest them boys ever come to a battlefield."

Daylight brought a sense of relief, for there had been no sign of Indians. Though it was generally believed they did not like to fight at night, that was their favorite time for stealing horses, protected by darkness. Rusty saddled Alamo and made a circle around the corrals and down to the river. He saw no fresh tracks that would indicate passage by the raiding party. Unless they had decided to give the farm a wide berth, they were still somewhere downriver.

Captain Whitfield gave the men time for a quick breakfast before announcing, "I'll leave a few men here to help guard this place. The rest of us will move east and see if we can intercept the hostiles." He sought out Rusty. "I'll take you with me, Shannon. And your prisoner, too." He nodded toward James. "I want to keep him in sight."

"
My
prisoner?"

"You lost him once. He's your responsibility."

James did not change expression. He spoke softly, so that only Rusty could hear him. "You goin' to shoot me if I take and run?"

"I guess I'll have to decide about that when the time comes."

"My sister wouldn't take it kindly."

Rusty suspected James was trying to determine the depth of his feelings for Geneva. If he took a notion to run, he would have to count on their being strong. In a sense James was using his sister. That irritated Rusty. "I wouldn't take too much for granted, was I you."

James said, "If we run into Indians, I won't be much help without a gun.

The captain overheard. "If that happens, I'll give you your gun back. But not before." He looked around. "Everybody ready?" He motioned with his hand and led the way, setting his favorite dun horse into an easy trot. The rangers' mounts had received only a short rest after two hard days of travel. Whitfield was being careful not to overtax them without cause.

Rusty counted eight riders paralleling the river. That seemed the most likely route for the Indians' return.

James said, "There's twice as many Indians as there is of us."

"Daddy Mike used to tell about the big fight on Plum Creek. He said the rangers were outnumbered four or five to one, but they whipped the Comanches anyway."

"'Took them by surprise, I guess."

"No, the Indians knew they were there. They just thought their numbers made them safe. They didn't expect the volunteers to hit them so fast and hard. It threw them off balance, and they never got back on their feet."

They rode by the Gaskin place. The roof had been patched, after a fashion, but it was the sort of slapdash job Rusty would have expected of Fowler. He managed to muster some sympathy for the old man in the loss of his sons despite years of grievances at Gaskin hands.

James knew little about the Gaskin family. He said, "It would be a mercy if the Indians burned that place down. Maybe the neighbors would get together and build a better one."

"They would for sure, if they could build it fifty miles away."

Farther downriver lay the Isaac York place. Rusty would rather have passed it by, for the thought of seeing York brought a bitter taste rising up from his stomach. He hoped York would not be there. Perhaps he had heeded Preacher Webb's warning and had gone to the settlement.

Captain Whitfield raised his hand in a signal for a halt. "Quiet!" he ordered. "Listen."

Rusty heard distant gunfire. The York place was under siege.

His first thought was that the Comanches would do for him what he had not been able to do for himself: administer justice to Isaac York. He took quick satisfaction in the thought, then lost it. He felt shame for letting himself harbor such an unworthy sentiment.

No comment was necessary, and Whitfield made none. He signaled for an advance and set his dun horse into a run. James spurred up beside him. "You promised me my gun, remember?"

Whitfield reached into his saddlebag and brought out the pistol he had taken when he placed James under arrest. "I'll want that back."

James made no promise.

Rusty pushed Alamo hard, trying to keep up. He suffered a confusing ebb and flow of conflicting emotions pulling him forward yet trying to hold him back. He was tempted to drop behind and leave the rescue of Isaac York to the others, but he could not bring himself to draw on the reins. Outnumbered, the rangers needed every man they had, and more. His feeling of duty to them was stronger than his hatred for York.

The cabin came into view on a slope easy water-carrying distance up from the river. The Comanches were circling it on horseback, loosing arrows at the windows and a broken door that sagged half open. A dead horse lay at the doorstep. Rusty guessed that a warrior had tried to smash the door by backing his horse into it. The rider evidently had escaped, but his mount had not.

White smoke arose from the two windows and around the door as defenders inside fired sporadically at the attackers.

The Indians spotted the incoming riders and broke their circle. They quickly formed into a group, then surged toward the rangers.

Oh, hell
, Rusty thought.
They 're fixing to meet as head-on
.

The sight of the oncoming Comanches, stripped down to little more than breechcloths and warpaint, shouting in defiance, set Rusty to shivering. His blood was like ice. But Whitfield did not temper his speed, nor did the other rangers. They plunged headlong toward the mass of warriors. Some of the men raised an exuberant veil to match that of the Indians.

Whitfield shouted, "Chastise them, boys! Hip and thigh!"

The Comanches split suddenly, avoiding an actual collision. They swept around the rangers, who struggled to circle about and give chase. Rusty heard the whisper of arrows and instinctively dropped down on the side of his horse. He saw a minuteman tumble from the saddle, an arrow in his shoulder. A horse fell, hit in the chest.

So far as he could see in the wild chaos of the moment, only two Comanches had rifles. One rifle fell to the ground as ranger pistols barked.

He glimpsed a large gathering of horses farther down the river, prizes of the Comanche raid.

The Indians regrouped and made a wide circle back toward the horses. They did not intend to give up their booty without a fight. The cabin door was forced open, and three men stepped out to fire at the Comanches as they passed. Rusty recognized preacher Webb, Tom Blessing, and the slave Shanty.

He did not see York. Perhaps the Indians had done to him what Rusty had long yearned to do.

Whitfield shouted, "Keep poundin' them, boys. They can't fight us and drive their horses, too."

Rusty was uncertain for a moment which the warriors would choose. Then he knew, for they formed a long, ragged line and came forward in a run, ready for more battle. The rangers spread out to meet them. Rusty found himself at one extreme end, racing toward a Comanche who seemed to have chosen him as his specific target.

The Indian swung a war club. The stone head looked as large as both of Rusty's fists. He knew it could crush his skull. He tried to line his pistol sights on the man's broad, painted chest, but the motion of his running horse kept the barrel bobbing up and down.

The opposing riders were no more than ten feet apart when Rusty squeezed the trigger. He saw the other horse scotch at the flash, just enough to prevent the war club from striking Rusty's head as it swung in a wide arc. It hit him across the shoulder so hard that it knocked him loose from the saddle. He felt himself falling. He landed on his back, jarring most of the breath from his lungs. His hat rolled away. He looked up as the Indian wheeled his horse around and came back, swinging the club again. Instinctively Rusty brought up the pistol and squeezed the trigger, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

* * *

Buffalo Caller had been in high spirits over the success of the raid. Though he had been thwarted in gathering scalps—most of the farms the warriors visited were either deserted or too well defended for a frontal assault—they had done well in gathering horses. It appeared they had somehow lost the element of surprise, but most of the Texans had been more interested in saving their lives than in saving their animals. The war party had rounded up horses in more abundance than he had dared hope.