[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (25 page)

Jaw clenched, the boy stared up at the sky and made not a whimper. The Comanches had taught him stoicism. Rusty wondered what else they had taught him.

Because so many men had sent their families to Tom Blessing's place for mutual defense, it was agreed that the procession would go there first. The Texans drove before them those stolen horses they had managed to recover. The ones lost would have to be regarded as a tax of sorts, payment for living where Indian raids had to be accepted as a cost of business.

From a distance Rusty could see no one at Blessing's. Then, as the inhabitants recognized that the oncoming horsemen were not Indians, they began emerging into the open. Several riders spurred ahead, anxious to see about the women and children they had sent or left there for safety.

Among them was Jed Hoskins. Whatever his shortcomings, Rusty decided, he was devoted to his family. Relieved men embraced wives and children. Rusty had no one there except Shanty. The old man limped out to meet him.

"Who's that you got in the wagon, Mr. Rusty?"

"A boy by the name of Andy Pickard."

Shanty's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "How come he's dressed up like an Indian?"

Rusty explained. "We're takin' him home with us 'til his leg mends, and 'til we can get word to his kinfolks to come and fetch him."

Tom Blessing had said he was fairly sure the boy's father had relatives down on the lower Brazos River, somewhere around old San Felipe.

Shanty leaned over the wagon and reached in as if to test the binding that held Rusty's rifle in place as a splint against the broken leg. The boy struck at him and shouted defensively. Shanty drew back. "He snaps like a young pup that's been beat on."

Rusty heard a familiar voice call his name. "Rusty Shannon! Damned if your hair ain't got redder than it already was."

Rusty knew the speaker before he turned and saw him. "Len Tanner, I thought you'd gone back home for good."

The lanky former ranger grabbed Rusty's hand so hard he made the knuckles hurt. "The trouble with home is that after you've been gone too long it ain't home anymore."

"How come you here at Tom Blessing's?"

"Joined in with some fellers trackin' Indians. This is where we ended up." He peered into the wagon bed. "Just heard about your Indian boy. He don't look so fierce."

"Don't lean in too close. He's liable to take a chunk out of you."

"How you goin' to talk to him? You don't speak Comanche."

"He seems to recognize some words. I figure the language will gradually come back if we talk to him a lot."

Tanner said, "I'm better at talkin' than you are."

Rusty could not argue with that. "Then come home with us, why don't you?"

"Us?"

"Me and Shanty." He pointed toward the black man. "He's been stayin' at my place."

Tanner hesitated, then extended his hand. It was not common for white to shake hands with black. Old ways faded slowly.

Jed Hoskins walked up, his face solemn. "Shanty, I want to talk to you."

Rusty stiffened, expecting trouble. He thought of his rifle, still tied to the boy's broken leg. But he had his pistol on his hip.

Hoskins said to Shanty, "My wife told me what you done."

Rusty prepared himself to step protectively in front of Shanty.

Shanty said, "I didn't do nothin' much."

"Saved my young'uns. I'd call that a right much."

Rusty stared in disbelief as Hoskins stuck out his hand toward the black man. Hoskins had a shamed look. "I've said some mean hard things agin' you. I take back every one of them."

Surprised, a little flustered, Shanty accepted the handshake.

Hoskins turned to Rusty. "Wife says my young'uns and some others got restless bein' cooped up like chickens. They went outside to play and strayed off too far. All of a sudden a bunch of Comanches showed up. Of course they was mainly lookin' for horses, but they'd take a scalp from a kid if they couldn't get one from a grown man.

"Shanty was out there keepin' an eye on the children. He put himself and his rifle between the Indians and the young'uns 'til they got back in the cabin. Like as not he kept some of them from bein' killed or carried off."

Rusty did not know what to say. Shanty seemed struck dumb, too. He made a slight grin and shrugged his shoulders.

Fowler Gaskin had waited out the Indian danger with the women and children. He listened in angry disbelief. "What he done wasn't so much. I'd've done the same thing."

Hoskins turned on him. "You was here. Why didn't you?"

Gaskin stammered. "I ... I didn't have no rifle."

"There was rifles around. You could've got you one. But they say you hunkered down in a corner and covered your head." Hoskins turned to the larger group of men. "I want everybody to understand: from now on, anybody who bothers this boy"—he pointed at Shanty—"has got me to whip." He turned a fierce face toward Fowler Gaskin.

Rusty thought it ironic that old Shanty was being called boy. But it was the way of the times. He voiced agreement with Hoskins. "What he said goes for me, too."

Shanty seemed embarrassed by the attention. He looked at the ground.

Rusty told him, "That means you can go home if you want to, but you're welcome to keep stayin' at my place. Me and you have worked right good together."

Shanty welcomed the offer. "I reckon I'll stay at least 'til we get the crops in. Looks to me like you'll need help takin' care of that Indian boy." He pointed his chin toward the wagon.

"He's not Indian."

"But he thinks he is."

"He's liable to be a handful, sure enough."

Shanty held up both palms. "I've got two hands, both of them strong."

Preacher Webb said, "I'd better stay with you too, at least a couple of days. Got to watch that youngster's broken leg."

It was in Rusty's mind that the Comanches might set enough store in the boy to come looking for him. "The more of us the better." Himself, Shanty, Webb, and Tanner ... they could make a good showing should it come to that.

Crowd opinion was that the Indians were unlikely to return, but it seemed the better part of valor to be prepared. Trying to outguess Comanche tactics was risky. Most agreed it was wise to remain at the Blessing farm overnight and not begin scattering until morning. No one wanted darkness to catch him halfway home.

That gave Webb plenty of time to remove the makeshift splint. He returned the rifle to Rusty, replacing it with two thin strips of pine. The Pickard boy bore the treatment in sullen silence.

Webb said, "The leg's swollen and hot. Goin' to be right painful for a while. Got a black bruise on one shoulder, too. Probably from the fall."

Everyone, particularly the children, showed a strong curiosity about the boy. They clustered around, studying him, commenting at length. The youngster tried to show them a fierce face, but his eyes betrayed fear and pain.

Webb said, "I think he's still got it in his head that we may kill him." He addressed the boy directly. "Nobody's out to hurt you, lad. We mean you well."

Tanner remarked, "You could put him in a circus and advertise him as the wild boy. He'd draw a crowd."

Rusty felt compassion. "All this attention is keepin' him agitated. We need to get him away from the crowd. Then maybe he'll settle down."

The next morning, still using the borrowed wagon, they set out for Rusty's farm. The women had made a sympathetic fuss over the Pickard boy, which seemed to distress him. The children were mainly inquisitive, some trying to talk to him, others simply chattering about him. All seemed only to add to his confusion. The boy appeared relieved to be getting away from so many strange people.

Rusty drove the wagon. Len Tanner rode close beside him on a bay horse. It was a long-legged animal, befitting its rider. Rusty said, "I didn't expect to see you back, especially so soon."

Tanner shook his head. "It don't take long to catch up on kinfolks. After about a week everybody seemed to be sayin' the same things over and over again. Even Mama and Papa. I'd figured I could help them through their old age, but they got too much family helpin' them as it is. And then there's them Yankee occupation soldiers. They got this far up the river yet?"

"Ain't seen them. I guess they've gone to the more settled places first." Rusty had heard that Union troops were scattering across the state, imposing Federal authority through martial law.

Tanner spat. "They'll get here soon enough, then you'll wish they'd never left Ohio or Massachusetts or whatever foreign country they come from. Insolent, overbearin' ... you'd think they never won a war before."

"I notice that bay horse you're ridin' has got a U.S. brand on him. Bought him from the government, did you?"

"Not exactly. Borried him, you might say. I needed to leave in a considerable hurry, and I seen him tied to a hitchin' post. Saddled and all, like he had Len Tanner's name on him."

Rusty put mock accusation into his voice. "Stealin' horses. And you used to be a ranger."

"I don't lay any claim to him. If the government wants him it's welcome to come and get him. I won't give them any trouble."

"Sounds like you're already in trouble."

"Just a little difference of opinion with a Yankee sergeant, is all. I was sittin' in the grocery quiet and peaceful when he come in and wanted to see my parole pass. I told him I didn't have one because I never had been a Confederate soldier. Told him I'd been a ranger. He couldn't see no difference. Said if I couldn't show him a pass he was fixin' to drag me off to the Yankee compound.

"Well, after a polite discussion he ended up on his back, all covered in flour. Barrel got turned over durin' the commotion. He said he'd see to it that I saw the front end of a firin' squad. Acted plumb serious about it. This horse looked faster than the plug I'd been ridin', so I taken the borry of it. Thought it was a good time to go visit some of my old friends."

"You're welcome to stay here as long as you want to."

"Til the first Yankee soldiers show up. I've seen enough of them to last me awhile."

* * *

Badger Boy felt strange lying in a bed that stood on legs. He stared up at a ceiling of wood instead of buffalo hide. It did not even have a smoke hole in the center like the tepees to which he was accustomed. He vaguely remembered having lived in a cabin much like this one. He conjured up a hazy image of hard-packed dirt floors, of climbing a stairway into a loft above an open dog run. And there had been people. He wished he could remember them better, but when he reached for them they faded like dust carried away on the wind.

He wanted to get up and move around, but his leg was immobilized by the splints the Texan shaman had tied against it to hold the broken bone together.

He knew the man must be some sort of shaman. A number of people had stood with him, heads bowed, speaking to whatever guardian spirits watched over the Texans. Badger Boy reasoned that theirs must be different from those of the Comanches. How could the same spirits serve both The People and their enemies?

He longed to escape this trap that had snared him, but his leg was tightly bound and so painful he could not move. He realized that if he untied the splints the leg would collapse under his weight. They had taken away his breechcloth and moccasins and had given him a long cotton shirt much too large. To him it resembled a woman's dress, no fit garment for a fighting man.

His early fears had subsided, but he remained distrustful. Despite these Texans' display of concern, it was possible they were holding him prisoner until they were ready to torture him to death, as he had seen Comanches ceremonially torture captives, especially Apaches. If this came to pass he was resolved not to cry out or let them see fear. He could be at least as brave as any Apache. He was determined to die with the dignity worthy of a warrior. Somehow, he felt that Steals the Ponies would know. Perhaps his adoptive father, Buffalo Caller, would look down from the spirit world and know, too.

The red-haired man who had captured him walked into the small room. Badger Boy had heard others call him Rusty. He had no idea what the name meant. He sought but did not find any sign of hostility in the man's countenance. On the contrary, the Texan seemed worried about him. This was difficult to understand in an enemy.

Rusty said, "We'll have dinner directly. You hungry?"

Badger Boy recognized some words here and there. He knew
dinner
meant food. He understood
hungry
. He reasoned that he had known the Texan language before he became a Comanche. Bits and pieces came back to him as he listened to the men talk. When no one was in the room he tried to speak the words to himself. Some came easily. Others twisted his tongue.

It did not really matter whether he remembered the Texan language or not. If they did not kill him, he intended to escape. When his leg mended enough that he could walk without the splints, he would steal away and return to his true people. At times he entertained a fancy that Steals the Ponies would find him and take him away, though this hope did not stand up well when he thought soberly on it. It was probable that his brother had given him up for dead. His only hope for freedom lay in his own efforts. Time, then. He had been taught patience, necessary to a hunter and a warrior. He would bide his time and wait for strength.

Meanwhile he observed the four men who held him captive, trying to figure out who and what they were. The old one they called Preacher was, of course, some manner of shaman, for he spoke often to his gods. The tall, skinny one they called Tanner talked a lot, though Badger Boy had difficulty understanding enough words to find meaning in the one-sided conversation. The old man with the black face and hands puzzled him considerably. He could not remember ever seeing a skin so dark, not even among the Mexicans who sometimes came from the far west to trade among The People. The black man played for him on an instrument he called a banjo. The music was strange, yet he remembered hearing its like before.

Most worrisome of all was the one called Rusty. His red hair troubled Badger Boy. Steals the Ponies had told him about a warning from Buffalo Caller not long before his father's death. The old warrior had told of a Texan with red hair, carrying medicine stronger than his own. Years earlier, Buffalo Caller had captured a small Texan boy who had hair the color of rusted iron. Some days afterward, disaster had fallen upon Buffalo Caller and all The People with him. Texans had recovered the boy. From then on, Buffalo Caller had regarded red hair as a dark omen, a hostile power to be avoided. Steals the Ponies had seen a red-haired Texan in the fight that gave Buffalo Caller his fatal wound.