[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (19 page)

I
t took Rusty somewhat longer to get home than he expected because Preacher Webb was much in demand along the way. Isolated settlers rarely had a chance to hear the gospel unless they read it themselves.

Clemmie Monahan had once said, "Others may know the words, but Preacher Webb knows the Master."

The two stopped for the night at the house of a farmer Rusty had met and Webb knew well. The farmer seemed overjoyed.

"Preacher, I been beggin' the Lord to send you, and damned if He didn't do it. I was afraid there wasn't a chance in hell ..."

Webb's warm smile turned to a concerned frown. "Somebody sick?"

"No, nothin' like that. My daughter needs marryin'. Her young man come home from the army about a month ago. Now, she's a good girl, and all that. Me and her mama brought her up accordin' to Scripture. But her and her feller hadn't seen one another in three years, and ... well, I'm afraid they've done planted a crop, if you understand my meanin'. It'd be a shame for it to sprout before the bonds are tied right and proper."

Rusty saw that Webb was trying to suppress a smile. He could not control his own. He turned to brush Alamo's sweaty hide.

Webb said, "Don't think bad of them, Hank. Sometimes our human nature out-wrestles our convictions. Back when preachers were a lot scarcer, I can remember performin' a marriage and then baptizin' the infant, both in one ceremony.

"It's only been a month, so it ain't gone too far. But I think the Lord would be a damned sight better pleased if you was to do it up accordin' to the Book."

"Would tonight be soon enough?"

"They'd sleep with an easier conscience. Me and Mama would sleep better, sure enough."

The farmer's wife lamented that her eldest daughter should be married in a church, with nice decorations and organ music, or at least a piano. The farmer declared, "Ain't no need for a lot of folderol when the horse has already got out of the stable."

That brought a sharp retort and an unspoken promise of retribution from the wife, but the farmer seemed unfazed. He sent the younger sons and daughters out to pick wildflowers. That, he said, was decoration enough. The ceremony, short and simple, was performed in the open dog run of the family cabin. Two of the bride's sisters sang a hymn, not well but with conviction.

Webb reached that part of the service in which he said, "If any man knows a reason why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

The farmer looked around fiercely as if expecting someone to voice an objection. The only people present besides family were Webb and Rusty. Webb pronounced the couple man and wife.

The farmer grinned, finally. "Preacher, I hope you drawed that knot good and tight."

Webb watched the couple kiss. "When I marry them, the knot always holds."

Rusty had been impatient at first, wanting to leave, but now he relaxed and enjoyed the easygoing family atmosphere. It was evident that the new son-in-law was accepted into the circle, and that he felt secure in it. Rusty envied him. These people were not the Monahan family, yet they had much in common as frontier folk facing up to whatever hardships their isolated life imposed upon them and grateful for whatever small pleasures they managed to wring from it. If they had concerns about Indians, or about whatever changes might he imposed upon them as the Federals took over in Texas, they seemed able to put them aside and enjoy the amenities of the moment.

As he and Webb retired to their blankets beneath the wagon shed, Rusty said, "They seem like contented folks. I'd hate to see anything bust up what they've got here."

"People like these won't stay busted. "Their ancestors fought their way across the Alleghenies and down through the old Southern states. This generation has made it all the way out to the far edge of Texas. They've been beaten down and some of them killed, but those that survived always got back on their feet. Time and again, they've stood shoulder to shoulder with the Lord and fought the devil to a standstill."

"I guess the key to it is family."

"And you're thinkin' you don't belong to one."

"All the family I ever had is gone."

"If you're just lookin' at blood, I don't have a family either. But all the people I minister to, all the friends I've made along my circuit, even the strangers I come across ... they're my family. They're kin because we've walked the same ground. We've shared the same experiences. Look at it that way, Rusty, and you'll see that you've got family, too. A mighty big family."

"I wouldn't count Fowler Gaskin. Or the Dawkinses."

"Fowler's like the uncle nobody wants to claim, the one they forget to invite to family gatherin's. Caleb Dawkins thinks he hears the voice of God, but he's just talkin' to himself. Still, saint or sinner, they're all our brothers in the sight of the Lord."

* * *

The first thing Rusty noticed was that the weeds had gotten somewhat ahead of him. The second was that the mule Chapultepec did not come to the barn at the usual time.

"I guess he got used to me bein' gone," he told Webb. But morning came without the mule showing up. Rusty saddled Alamo and rode a wide circle without finding sign of the lost animal.

Webb said, "Maybe he's just strayed a little farther than usual. Mules have a way of knowin' what you want them to do, and they do the opposite."

Rusty remembered the Monahan milk cow. "Any time somethin' comes up missin' around here, I see the fine hand of Fowler Gaskin. He probably got wind that I was gone. You've got to nail everything down tight to keep him from walkin' off with it."

Webb said, "I'll ride over there with you. The mood you're in, you may say or do somethin' you'll be sorry for afterwards."

"I've never spoken a cross word to Fowler that wasn't justified. But you're welcome."

They rode in silence, for they had exhausted just about all subjects for conversation on the long and often interrupted trip back from the Monahan farm. Passing Gaskin's field, Rusty saw that weeds threatened to choke the crops.

"If Fowler took my mule, he didn't use him to plow out his corn," he said. "Probably rode him to town to get whiskey."

"Don't condemn a man 'til you know he's guilty. Be tolerant."

"When it comes to rascals and thieves, I don't see where tolerance has got much place."

Rusty's first impression was that the old cabin leaned a little farther than the last time he had seen it, but he decided that was his imagination. Were it not for a couple of logs leaned up at an angle to brace one wall, it probably would have collapsed by now. Fowler Gaskin sat in a wooden chair beside the front door, a jug at his feet.

He started to arise, then sat down heavily as if his legs would not support him. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes. "You come makin' trouble again, Rusty Shannon? And who's that you got with you?" He blinked some more. "Oh, howdy, Preacher. Didn't know you right off. Sun got in my eyes.

Rusty did not waste time. "I come lookin' for my mule. You got him?"

Rusty's sharp tone brought an equally sharp reply. "You see him anywhere around here? I already got one old wore-out mule. What would I want with another?"

Webb spoke softly. "Rusty doesn't mean to accuse you, Fowler. He's just worried about Chapultepec. I don't suppose you've seen him wanderin' around?"

"Ain't seen him and ain't lookin' for him."

Gaskin's voice was relatively calm. Rusty thought the old man might be telling the truth, for once. Usually the guiltier he was, the more loudly he protested his innocence.

Gaskin reached down for the jug. He let the stopper fall from his hand but made no move to retrieve it from the ground. "You been over to the York place and asked that nigger Shanty?"

Rusty said, "No, you were the first one that came to mind."

"You're like your old daddy ... always quick to accuse a man." Fowler scowled. "I been tellin' everybody: There ain't nothin' safe around here as long as that Shanty stays amongst us."

"Shanty's never hurt anybody."

"No? Them niggers are always sneakin' around, stealin' whatever they can find. I'd bet a gallon of good whiskey that you'll find your mule over at his place."

"I don't believe Shanty would steal from me."

Gaskin dragged his sleeve across his mouth. "He may not be around here much longer to steal from
anybody
. I heard that some fellers rode over there last night to tell him he'd be a sight healthier somewheres else. It ain't fittin', a nigger ownin' a farm same as a white man."

Webb showed a sudden concern. "What fellers?"

"I ain't sayin'."

Rusty demanded, "Where were
you
last night?"

"You ain't a ranger no more. I don't have to tell you nothin'."

Rusty was instantly convinced that Gaskin had been with whomever had visited Shanty's place. "If you did that old man any harm ..."

"You're accusin' me again. Go over there, why don't you? Like as not that's where you'll find your mule."

If I do, Rusty thought, it'll be because you put him there. He said, "Let's go, Preacher." He reined Alamo around without waiting.

The minister had to push to catch up with him. "I can read your mind. You're thinkin' Fowler might've taken the mule over there to make Shanty look like a thief."

"I didn't know it showed so plain."

"I doubt Fowler has that much imagination."

"Maybe I
am
blamin' him too quick, but I don't put anything past that old reprobate."

He felt a special responsibility to the former slave, partly, at least, because he had wrongly accused Shanty's former owner, Isaac York, for so long. Crossing the land that had been York's and now belonged to Shanty, Rusty saw no sign of his mule. He had hoped he would not. That would have provided ammunition to those who agitated against Shanty's presence, even though Rusty would not have believed the passive-natured old man to be a thief.

He saw Shanty in his field, plowing with a mule much younger than Chapultepec. The corn stood tall, and the cotton looked green and promising. The farm was in sharp contrast to what Rusty and Webb had seen at Gaskin's.

Webb said, "This shows what a man can do when he's on the good side of the Lord."

"Shows what he can do if he's willin' to work." Rusty reined Alamo toward the field.

Seeing them, Shanty appeared apprehensive. He reined the plow mule to a stop and took off his hat, lifting and holding it to shade his face and block out the sun's glare. He looked ready to turn and run. Recognizing the visitors, he resumed plowing to the end of the row, then halted the mule and stepped to the rail fence to greet them.

He took off his hat again and bowed in the deferential manner he had learned in boyhood. "Good afternoon, Mr. Preacher, Mr. Rusty."

Rusty saw an ugly welt across Shanty's dark face. It appeared to have been left by a quirt or a whip. Anger seized him.

"Who did that to you?"

Shanty blinked as fear came into his dark eyes. "I'm all right. Ain't nothin' been done that won't heal."

Webb dismounted. With thumb and forefinger on Shanty's chin, he turned the black man's head one way, then the other, examining the mark closely. "That cut deep enough to bring blood. Have you put anything on it?"

"Some bacon grease with a touch of salt in it. That's all I had."

Anger made Rusty tremble. "Anybody who'd do a thing like that..."

Shanty shrugged with the resignation to which he had been conditioned all his life. "They just figured to scare me some, is all. And I reckon they done that."

"Warned you to get off of this place?"

"That seemed to be the main thing on their mind. Said I don't belong here, and if I don't want somethin' worse than that whip I'd better leave. But I got nowhere to go."

"This place belongs to you fair and square. They've got no right to run you off."

Soberly Webb said, "Rights don't matter when the devil's at work. Don't forget what happened to Lon and Billy Monahan."

"Tom Blessing's the law. I'll go talk to him. No tellin' what they might do the next time."

Webb said, "It wouldn't be a bad idea if you took Shanty home with you where you can watch out for him. I'll go see Tom."

Shanty demurred, gently but firmly. "I thank you gentlemen, I surely do. But I got crops here and a few critters to see after. I can't just be goin' off and leavin' them."

Rusty said, "It's dangerous for you here 'til we get this thing squashed."

Shanty shook his head. "Ain't nothin' happens without the Lord's will. I'll talk to Him about it."

Rusty considered a moment. "You're dealin' with people who don't spend much time listenin' to the Lord. But they'll listen to me or pay the price. Who were they, Shanty?"

Shanty looked down, avoiding Rusty's eyes. "They come at night. Had their faces covered."

"I'll bet Fowler Gaskin was amongst them."

"Like I said, I didn't see no faces. I wouldn't want to bear false witness against nobody. The Commandments is plain on that."

"Damned cowards, whippin' an old man that can't afford to defend himself. Let's see them try and whip
me
."

Webb warned, "Better get ahold of yourself. The mood you're in, you
might
shoot somebody."

Shanty pleaded, "I wouldn't want nobody killed on my account. This little old place ain't worth that."

Rusty realized Webb was right; in his present state he just might shoot somebody. He had come frighteningly close once with Isaac York, and he would have done it the night the Monahans were lynched if he could have reached Caleb Dawkins. On both occasions he had felt chilled afterward, realizing how near he had come to doing murder.

Webb said, "You talk to Tom Blessing. I'll stay with Shanty. I don't think anybody would molest him with me as a witness."

Rusty felt more like staying, but he recognized Webb's wisdom. "I'll go see Tom."

He wondered how much legal authority the sheriff had since the breakup of the Confederacy. But Tom Blessing's challenging presence bespoke authority whether backed by law or not. He had only to walk into a crowd to draw its full attention.