[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (12 page)

Gaskin found voice, and it was shrill. "I'll have the sheriff on you, takin' a man's cow."

"I'll go tell him myself and save you the trip."

Gaskin turned and reached back through the cabin door and brought out the long rifle.

Len asked, "You don't reckon that old man's crazy enough to fire that thing at us, do you?"

Rusty had not considered that Laskin might actually be crazy. The notion was not far-fetched. "I sure wouldn't stop and ask him." He spurred Alamo and forced horse and cow into a long trot.

Clemmie beamed as Rusty led the cow into the yard. She walked around the animal, petting her, rubbing a hand along the smooth hide. "I'm sure glad to see you back, old girl."

Rusty explained the circumstances. She said, "Daddy was over at the Gaskin place a couple of times, thinkin' she might've strayed in that direction."

"She strayed all right, with a little help."

"How come you figured it out so easy?"

"With Fowler Gaskin for a neighbor, nothin' is safe unless it's nailed down tight or too heavy to carry."

* * *

He did not worry about Fowler Gaskin carrying his complaint to the sheriff. Tom Blessing knew the old reprobate as well as Rusty did. But mention of Blessing set Rusty to thinking he should ride over and visit Daddy Mike's old friend. He intended to take Len Tanner along, but Len seemed to be enjoying himself hoeing the garden with the two girls.

He told Rusty, "These Monahan sisters are different. Somehow I can talk to them without my tongue tyin' itself up in a bow knot."

"They're still just kids."

"Kids? Maybe you've been hurtin' so bad over Geneva that you ain't taken a close look, especially at Josie. Country girls turn into women fast. Ain't no make-believe like with them town girls, no flirty put-on."

Rusty did not need Tanner to remind him of Geneva. She was never far from his thoughts.

"Well, you keep choppin' those weeds and don't get too close to the girls. You wouldn't want their mother comin' after
you
with a singletree."

Tom Blessing was a large man whose natural leadership drew others to follow him no matter how long or difficult the trail. He had led local volunteer minutemen companies in pursuit of raiding Indians and by example had been a strong moral force in the community. Daddy Mike had always looked up to him, and Mike Shannon had not been one to give honor where honor was not due. He had always said Tom Blessing's word was like gospel. Blessing had been present when Mike and Preacher Webb had found a frightened little red-haired boy on the battleground at Plum Creek back in 1840. Later it seemed he was never far away when the Shannons needed help.

As a boy, Rusty had looked upon Tom Blessing with an awe that had never entirely left him though now he stood as tall as Blessing and could look him squarely in the eyes.

Blessing had added a wing onto his cabin since Rusty had last been there. It was typical of him that he never let "well enough" alone. He was not content with existing conditions if he could see a way to improve them.

Rusty saw him saddling a horse in a log pen beside the barn and reined Alamo over that way. Blessing reacted with surprise upon recognition but methodically finished buckling the girth before he stepped around from behind the gray horse and waved a huge hand. "Thought the Indians might've got you, or you'd plumb left the country."

Rusty dismounted and accepted Blessing's bruising handshake. "Never saw a place I liked better than here." He studied the gray horse. It took a big one to carry a man like Blessing. "Looks like I caught you fixin' to go someplace. I wouldn't want to hold you up."

Blessing frowned, considering before he spoke. "I got a message from Isaac York. Asked me to come over to his place as quick as I could. I'd invite you to go with me, but I remember that you held a heavy grudge against him."

"That was a long time ago. When I found out I was mistaken, I told him I was sorry." Rusty had long believed York had fired the shot that killed Mike Shannon. He had been almost to the point of shooting the man before he discovered that the blame lay elsewhere.

"Then you're welcome to come if you're of a mind to."

Rusty was a little surprised that York was still alive. York had fought a long and hopeless battle with whiskey. Neighbors had placed bets on when he would lose the inevitable fight with the final bottle.

"Still drinkin' as hard as he used to?"

"I'm afraid so. Last time I saw him, I doubted he'd make it home. If it hadn't been for Shanty, he probably wouldn't have."

Shanty was York's slave. More than that, he was York's friend, almost the only one the man still had after years of alienating his neighbors.

Rusty said, "I still owe Isaac for all the bad things I said about him. I'll go with you."

Blessing nodded his approval. "You show your good Shannon raisin'. Takes a strong man to admit he's been wrong." He mounted the gray horse and started off, Rusty pulling in beside him. They talked of old times, shared experiences on the trail when Blessing had headed up the local volunteer minutemen and Rusty had gone along as a green youngster eager for his first real fight. He had never been that eager again, not after seeing blood.

Blessing had helped Rusty and Captain Whitfield break up a horse-stealing ring. He had been buying remounts as a civilian representative of the Confederate Army when Caleb Dawkins's son Pete had driven a sizeable bunch into Jacksboro to sell. They proved to have been stolen, some from Caleb Dawkins's own remuda. Facing his prideful father's wrath, and a choice of prison or military service, Pete had reluctantly enlisted in the Southern Army.

Rusty said, "I hear you're the sheriff now. I don't see you wearin' a badge."

The last sheriff lost it someplace. Anyway, everybody around here knows who I am."

"What if you run into outlaws and they don't know you?"

"They'll get acquainted with me quick enough."

York's cabin was plain, without even such embellishments as a small porch or a yard fence. York had no family beyond the slave Shanty. His wife and daughters had been killed by Comanches years ago. He had tried to drown his bitterness in whiskey ever since. He seethed with hatred for Indians, no matter their intentions, no matter their tribe, and embraced any opportunity to kill them.

A dog's harking brought a slight figure to the cabin door. Rusty recognized the aging slave. The talk was that his mother had belonged to Isaac York's father, and he and Isaac had grown up together. Some people whispered that the two might be half-brothers. Technically Shanty was York's property, but in practice he was more a caretaker and protector. Had it not been for Shanty constantly watching over him, dragging his contentious master out of a fight before it went too far, sobering him up before it was too late, Isaac probably would have gone to his grave years ago.

Shanty bowed in the deferential manner drilled into him from the time he had learned to walk. His lean body was bent under the weight of hard times. His big-knuckled hands were disproportionately large, bespeaking a lifetime of manual labor. "Mr. Blessing, it's a mercy you've come. Mr. Isaac's mighty low." The voice was soft and seemed near breaking. Shanty looked at Rusty a moment before coming to recognition. "Why, you're that Shannon boy. Been a long time. Only you don't look like a boy no more."

"Nobody stays young long in this part of the country. Sorry about Isaac."

"I'm afraid the Lord's fixin' to call him to Heaven."

Rusty was not sure Heaven was Isaac's true destination. He was about to ask if a doctor had seen Isaac, then remembered that the nearest thing to a doctor anywhere around was Preacher Webb. Primarily interested in ministering to souls, Webb had a considerable practical knowledge about healing bodies as well.

Shanty said, "Last we seen of Preacher Webb, he was headin' west. Said he had a flock out yonder in need of a shepherd."

That might have been a reference to the brush men, Rusty thought. One had mentioned occasional visits by Preacher Webb.

Shanty's eyes reflected a deep sadness. "There's lost sheep in need of him right here. I hope he comes in time."

A weak voice called from inside the cabin. Shanty motioned toward the door. "He's been frettin', Mr. Blessing, wonderin' when you'd come."

Rusty followed Blessing into the cabin. Shanty came behind him. Rusty's eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom indoors. Isaac York lay on a cot, his face drawn, his eyes hollow and showing but little life. He extended a trembling hand to the sheriff. "Tom. I was afraid you wouldn't get here in time."

"I'm here now, Isaac. What can I do for you?"

York's gaze lighted on Rusty. He was momentarily surprised. "Shannon? Rusty Shannon?"

"It's me, Isaac."

York's voice was hoarse. "I never killed your daddy. Me and Mike didn't get along, but it wasn't me that killed him."

"I know that. I'm sorry I ever thought otherwise. I wish I could take back every bad word I ever spoke about you."

"I'm glad you come. You can be a second witness."

Blessing asked, "Witness to what?"

"I want you to write me a will. I'd do it myself, only my hands shake too much. There's some paper over on that table, and a pencil."

Blessing found a sheet of paper and used the bottom of a tin plate to give it a firm backing. "What do you want me to write?"

York looked toward Shanty, who leaned his bent frame against the log wall. "I want you to say that I am of sound mind and body. Well, maybe the body ain't sound, but my mind is clear. I want you to write down that I am givin' Shanty his freedom. No
ifs
, no maybes. I want it known that he don't belong to me or to nobody else."

Rusty saw that gesture as unnecessary. Abraham Lincoln had declared the slaves free, and if they weren't already they would be when the first Yankee soldiers showed up.

"Another thing," York said, "everything I own, this farm, this cabin, the little bit of money I've got ... it all goes to Shanty."

Blessing's eyebrows raised a little. "There's liable to be talk."

"In my shape, what do I care about talk? Shanty ain't a slave, not anymore. He's worked hard on this land. By all rights, it's his."

"You mentioned money."

"There's a can with Yankee silver in it. A little over a hundred dollars. Buried out by the corner post of my cow pen."

"You don't have any blood kin that you'd want to leave somethin' to?"

"Used to have a brother over the Sabine in Louisiana. We ain't seen one another in years. He never even answered my letter when I buried my family. So to hell with him."

Blessing wrote slowly and laboriously, then handed the paper over to Rusty. "That look to you like what he said?"

Rusty glanced quickly over the scribbling. "You got it just fine."

York reached for the paper, pencil, and plate. With shaking hand he signed it. "You-all witness it. Make it to where no lawyer can mess with it."

Blessing signed beneath York's name and passed the paper to Rusty. "You've done good by Shanty. I'm proud to've known you, Isaac."

"I ought to've given him his freedom years ago."

Shanty's voice quavered. "I thank you, Mr. Isaac."

Isaac relaxed, seeming to sink deeper into the bed. "Some people ain't blessed with any real honest-to-God friends in a lifetime. I've had one, at least."

Outside, Blessing turned sharp eyes on Rusty. "You got any idea where Preacher Webb might be found?"

"Ain't seen him, but they tell me he comes by my place to visit the Monahan family pretty often."

"If he shows up, I wish you'd tell him to get over here as quick as he can. I doubt he can do much about Isaac's sickness, but maybe he can help the poor feller die with his soul at ease."

"I'll watch for him."

Blessing looked worried. "I'm afraid Isaac ain't thought all this through."

"He's leavin' Shanty a good farm."

"May be leavin' him trouble, too. There's some folks won't take it kindly."

"It's Isaac's farm to do with as he pleases."

"He won't he here to take the punishment, but Shanty will."

"You're the sheriff. You can help him."

Blessing's eyes narrowed. "Maybe, maybe not. Looks to me like the state government is comin' unraveled. Maybe we can hold the county together. I'll keep tryin' to do my job 'til the Federals come and tell me I'm not sheriff anymore."

Blessing's comment was like an echo of the concerns Rusty had heard from Captain Whitfield. "Do you really think they'll do that?"

"I don't know. I've never been on the losin' side of a war before. We weren't exactly gentle with Mexico. Maybe the Yankees won't treat us kindly either."

"Captain Whitfield says they can't hang us all, and they don't have prisons enough to pen us all up."

"But they can make life pretty miserable. Best thing for a while is stay close to home and tend to business like I always did. Keep the peace the best I can 'til they tell me otherwise."

"You won't have any rangers to back you up."

"I don't even have a deputy. He went off to the war, and the county hasn't hired anybody to take his place."

Rusty considered awhile. "If you need help, let me know. I'll come runnin'.

"Thanks, but the county's got no money to pay you."

"I didn't get paid for most of my ranger service either. They sent us a little flour and salt and sometimes coffee. They allowed us a place to roll out our beddin'. That was about all."

"I hope you're not sorry I got you into it in the first place."

"No. If I'd stayed here I'd have most likely shot Isaac York, thinkin' he killed Daddy Mike. I always felt like I was doin' somethin' useful, bein' a ranger. I'll miss it."

Blessing turned wistful. "Once the Federals have been here long enough to see how bad we need the rangers, maybe they'll organize them again."

"If they do, I'll he ready."

"You've barely got home and you're already talkin' about leavin' again. Rangerin' can be a hard life, even harder than farmin'."

"How long can a man stare at a mule's hind end before he starts gettin' a little crazy?"