[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (13 page)

A
pproaching home, Rusty saw Vince Purdy and Oscar Pickett with a mule in the cornfield. Tanner and the two Monahan girls were hoeing weeds at opposite ends of the garden. Tanner turned away, but not before Rusty saw a bruise on his cheek and a darkening around one eye. He asked Josie, "What happened to Len?"

She and her younger sister exchanged quick looks. "He stumbled and hit himself in the face with the hoe handle."

The younger girl giggled.

Rusty thought two and two stopped short of being four. He led Alamo to where Tanner worked. He waited for Tanner to volunteer an explanation, but none came. Rusty had to ask him.

Tanner reluctantly admitted, "I tried to kiss that Josie. You know she's got a fist like a mule's left hind foot?"

Rusty could imagine Clemmie chasing Fowler Gaskin, swinging a singletree at his head. "She's her mother's daughter."

"All that time in the rangers, I thought we were protectin' helpless womenfolks. I pity the poor Indian that runs afoul of the Monahan girls."

Rusty returned to where the two girls stood watching. "Len tells me it wasn't a hoe handle that bruised his face."

Josie blushed. "He kissed me without even askin'."

Rusty smiled at her embarrassment. "I'll remember that if I ever feel like kissin' you."

Her eyes sparkled. "The difference is, you won't need to ask me."

Rusty rode Alamo to the barn. He noticed a strange horse in the pen. He tied his own horse to the fence and walked toward the cabin. Clemmie was sharing a bench with a man on the open dog run. Recognition brought Rusty a surge of joy.

"Preacher Webb!" He rushed to offer his hand. Webb had been like a foster father to him, second after Daddy Mike.

Webb stood up, carefully stretching his back as if it ached. That would not be surprising, considering the long miles he rode to carry the gospel's light to every dark corner he could reach. Rusty gripped the minister's hand so tightly that Webb winced.

"Careful, Rusty. These old bones are turnin' brittle." The knuckles were swollen with arthritis.

Rusty was taken aback to see that wrinkles had bitten deeply into the minister's face. The war had aged everyone more than its four years should justify. "Looks to me like you're still tryin' to carry the weight of the world."

"The Word is never too heavy for these arms to bear, even if one of them
is
crippled."

Webb's left arm had been broken in an Indian fight long ago. It had given him trouble ever since. He was thinner than when Rusty had seen him last. His hair seemed grayer and his eyes careworn in spite of what he said about the joy of carrying the Word.

Rusty sobered. "I just came from Isaac York's. You're needed real bad over there."

Webb's smile died. "For doctorin', or to preach a funeral?"

"I'm afraid that depends on how long it takes you. When I left, it didn't look like Isaac had much time left."

"I've expected this, sort of." Webb turned. "Clemmie, I'd meant to stay longer."

Clemmie clutched his arm. Regret colored her voice. "Next time."

He patted her hand, then set off toward the barn. Rusty had to lengthen his stride to keep up.

Webb said, "I took a look at Captain Whitfield's wound. It seems to be healin' right well. He's anxious to go on home."

Rusty had been with Whitfield so long that seeing him leave would almost be like watching a good friend die. Distances being what they were and the farm likely to tie him down, he might not see the captain again for a long time, if ever.

Len Tanner would probably go when Whitfield and Pickett did. Rusty dreaded parting with him, for they had ridden together a long time. However, given Tanner's little run-in with Josie, it might be just as well. Staying here, being constantly reminded of his humiliation, would be for Tanner like an itch he could not scratch.

Saddling his horse, Webb asked, "How did you know about Isaac?"

"I went with Tom Blessing to witness Isaac's will."

"He's never talked to me about havin' any kin."

"He's leavin' everything to Shanty."

Webb reacted much as Tom Blessing had. He seemed troubled. "Isaac may have burdened Shanty with a load of grief too heavy for his old shoulders."

"I don't know who would bother him. These are God-fearin' people around here ... or used to be."

"Some who call themselves God's children have notions they didn't learn in church."

"They won't hurt Shanty. There's a bunch of us will see to that."

"I'm afraid Isaac didn't realize the trouble he might be stirrin' up."

Or maybe he did, Rusty thought. York was a bitter man who had little liking for his neighbors.

Webb started to mount his horse but paused. "Clemmie says you didn't know about Geneva bein' married."

Rusty looked away. "No, I didn't."

"I wrote you. I guess you never got the letter."

"We seldom got much mail."

"Are you goin' to be all right with it?"

"I have to be, don't I?"

"You're still young, and there's lots of nice young women out there. You'll find one."

"I don't know that I'll be lookin'."

"Then maybe she'll find you."

Clemmie was still standing on the dog run when Rusty returned to the cabin. Her worried eyes were fixed on Webb, riding away toward the east. She said, "He looks awful tired. He should think of himself for a change."

"I don't believe he knows how."

"He ought to quit travelin' so much. He needs somebody to take care of him."

Like you, for instance? Rusty resisted speaking the thought aloud.

She said, "I'm afraid he'll die all alone out on some trail with nothin' but his horse and his Bible."

"He's a man of the cloth. He'd consider it a fittin' way to go."

Her mouth tight, Clemmie retreated into the kitchen. Rusty considered following after her but could not think of anything helpful he might say.

Vince Purdy and Oscar Pickett came in from the field, Vince riding the plow mule, Pickett carrying a hoe over his thin shoulder. Rusty walked out to meet them. He unsaddled his own horse, then helped remove the harness from the mule. Purdy said, "Preacher left here in a hurry, seems like."

Rusty explained. Purdy looked with concern toward the cabin. "Clemmie figured on him stayin' a day or two."

"He'll be back."

"But then he'll be gone again. She sets a lot of store by him."

"It appears that way to me."

"It ain't like she's forgot about Lon and Billy. She never will. But there comes a time when folks have got to pick up and move on, live for the livin' and not for them that's gone. What is it the Bible says? Don't look for me in the graveyard because I've gone on to a better place?"

"Somethin' like that." Rusty had never done much reading in the Book, though Mother Dora had read a lot to him when he was small. There had been times when things he saw happen around him made him wonder if the Word applied to Texas. He had seen too many good people die, like Daddy Mike and Mother Dora, Lon and Billy, while others like Caleb Dawkins and Fowler Gaskin lived on. That seemed a contradiction of the Scriptures.

Reconciling to the loss of his foster parents had taken him a long time. Even yet, something heard or seen or felt would bring them suddenly to mind. Remnants of old grief would sweep over him, reviving a painful sense of aloneness. That feeling had been renewed and intensified by his loss of Geneva. "It's easy to say we ought to put such things behind us. I wish doin' it was as easy as talkin' about it."

Captain Whitfield came onto the dog run as the men approached the cabin. He had left his cane inside. "Oscar, would you be ready to leave here in the mornin'?"

Pickett seemed pleased. He had evidently expected this. "Ready any time you are, Captain."

"We've abused these good folks' hospitality too long."

Rusty assured him, "You could stay here all summer and not wear out your welcome."

"I'm rarin' to go and make sure nobody has carried off my farm."

* * *

It did not take long for the three men to load their belongings after an early-morning breakfast. They had little to take with them. Whitfield tugged at his big mustache, eager to go, yet reluctant to say good-bye. He took a hard grip on Rusty's hand.

Rusty said, "Sir, it's been a pleasure and a privilege to serve under you."

Whitfield blinked a couple of times. "Looks to me like the state government has fallen to pieces. I don't know when it may ever decide that Texas needs to reorganize the ranger force. But if anybody asks me, I'll tell them you'd make a good officer."

Whitfield gave Rusty's hand another shake, then turned quickly and climbed up into the wagon. Oscar Pickett said, "I better git too, before he runs off and leaves me."

"You take good care of him." Rusty figured the two old rangers would take care of each other.

Len Tanner hung back after Pickett set the wagon in motion. He twisted the reins in his hand and stared at the ground. "Damn it, Rusty, this is hard."

"I know. I feel the same way."

"I'm anxious to go see how Mama and Daddy are gettin' along. But don't you be surprised if I show up around here again one of these days."

"I'll be lookin' for you."

Tanner glanced toward the sisters on the dog run. "You watch out for them girls. They could hurt a man."

He gripped Rusty's hand, then mounted and spurred off after the wagon. He looked back once. Rusty could not tell whether Tanner was looking at him or at the girls.

When Rusty looked at them, he saw Geneva.

* * *

He attended Isaac York's funeral more out of guilt than out of liking for the man—that and respect for the aging Shanty. It weighed on his conscience that he had so long blamed the innocent York for Daddy Mike's death. But York had been easy to dislike for his disagreeable manner, his violent temper.

Fewer than two dozen neighbors and people from the settlement came to see York laid to rest. To find good words to say about the deceased, Preacher Webb skirted gingerly along the boundary between fact and fiction. Funerals were one place where a minister had license to stretch the truth a little.

Ropes lowered the plain wooden coffin into the grave. Rusty gazed at Shanty's solemn face and considered the infinite patience the black man must have had to live with and serve someone who had so many negative traits. Of course, as a slave Shanty had had no real choice. But even a slave's tolerance must have its limits. Now he was legally free. But Rusty wondered if at heart he could ever be free from slavery's legacy of dependence and self-doubt.

No one claiming to be a relative showed up for the service. That was to be expected, for York had never said much about his kin. He had mentioned a brother in Louisiana, but no one around the settlement knew just where the brother lived, if indeed he was still alive. The only known survivor, then, was Shanty. Only a few people filed by after the service and extended their sympathies to him. As a former slave, his feelings were not widely regarded as being of much importance.

Tom Blessing was among the exceptions. He said, "Shanty, you'll need to come to the courthouse the first chance you get. There'll be some papers need signin' before this land can be deeded over to you. Since Isaac made me executor of his will, I'll see that they're ready and waitin' for you." "I'm obliged, Mr. Blessing."

"I'll need your last name. I don't believe I ever heard it."

"I don't recollect as I ever had one. They just called me Shanty. That was all."

"You can take Isaac's name then. I'll make out the papers in the name of Shanty York."

"Shanty York suits me fine, sir."

Fowler Gaskin pushed forward, scowling. "You'd give a nigger a white man's name?"

Blessing was taken aback. "It's an old custom for slaves to take the name of their masters."

"Not where I come from it ain't."

Rusty wondered why Gaskin had come to the funeral unless he hoped to pick up something useful when nobody was looking. Gaskin had disliked Isaac York, and York never had a good word for him. That was one point on which York and Rusty had long been in full agreement. Rusty said, "Maybe you ought to go back where you came from, Fowler."

Gaskin turned on Rusty. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Well, I'm stayin' where I'm at. But it don't set right with me, knowin' I got a nigger for a neighbor."

"You always did. He's been there longer than you have."

"But he never owned the land. He was just what the Lord intended for a nigger to be. A white man's property."

Gaskin gave Shanty a contemptuous look and stalked away toward a lank mule he had tied nearby.

Rusty moved to Tom Blessing's side. "What Fowler Gaskin thinks don't amount to a damn."

"But look around you. Even some people who don't like him agree with him on this."

"They'll get used to it. With the war over, there's a new day comin'."

Blessing's mouth drooped at the corners. "The war is over, hut I'm afraid the fightin's not."

* * *

Steals the Ponies was troubled. Two Comanche warriors returning from a clandestine visit to relatives on the reservation had brought interesting news that raised many questions but offered few answers.

He interrogated them at length, distrusting their report. Much of the word that circulated among people on the reservation proved after a time to be false. The whites were worse tricksters than the coyote.

"How do you know the white men's war is finished? Who told you?"

"My cousin," said Wolf Eyes. "He heard it from a shaman."

"Shamans are always seeing things that are not there. It is what they do."

"But this one went to the long-knife post at Fort Sill. He was told by those who heard it from the soldiers. The
teibos
of the North defeated those of the South."

Despite his distrust of whites, Steals the Ponies found the report plausible. But even if true, its meaning was uncertain and therefore troubling.