[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (33 page)

Rusty and Andy were three days out from the Monahan farm. Andy had left his white-man clothing behind. He was back in his Comanche breechcloth as he had been when Rusty first saw him, bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. The two had taken their time, sparing the horses and watching for sign of hunting activity. They had begun encountering buffalo in scattered herds, but they saw no indications of slaughter. Though Indians typically utilized virtually all of a carcass, they left enough remnants on the killing and skinning ground to show they had been there.

Rusty said, "There ain't really that many Comanches when you spread them around over a country as big as this. And landmarks ... ain't many of them either. Are you sure you can really find your people?"

"They have many camping grounds. I know them all. You bet I find them."

Andy's use of the language had improved in the days he had spent with the Monahans. Rusty attributed that to coaching by Josie and Alice, but Andy said old Vince Purdy had shown a strong interest in him, too. He had taken the boy hunting and fishing and taught him a little about managing the garden.

"Good people," Rusty told him. "You'd find there's lots of fine folks like the Monahans if you'd give us a chance to show you."

He knew he had little chance of changing the boy's mind, but he had not given up trying. He would not give up until Andy rode off and left him. Rusty had already ridden farther than he had intended, hoping for something that might turn Andy around.

"You enjoyed yourself at the Monahans', didn't you?"

"Much. They make me remember more. I remember better now my mama, my daddy. The Monahans much the same my mama and daddy."

"If your real folks could talk to you now, they'd say you belong with your own kind. They'd tell you to stay with us."

"They come to me in a dream, but they do not talk. My brother come in same dream and say I come back to Comanches. I hear my brother."

Andy pointed to buzzards circling far to the west. This was almost the time of year when they would begin drifting southward, but no chilly northers had prodded them yet with the first hint of winter. The buzzards were at such a distance that Rusty had not noticed them. Andy had a keener eye, or perhaps a more highly developed sensitivity to the subtle messages of nature.

"How'd you know they were there?" Rusty demanded. "I can barely see them even after you pointed them out to me."

"The spirits, I guess. Somehow I know."

"The spirits tellin' you anything else?"

"They say my people somewhere over there. They kill buffalo. They say it is time you turn back, or maybe my people kill you."

Rusty's backside tingled. Several times Andy had demonstrated that he possessed instincts beyond Rusty's understanding, an ability to sense presences he could not see.

"I can't just ride off and leave you by yourself."

"But it is what you said. We talked much about it."

"Talkin' about it ahead of time is one thing. But it's different when you get there and face havin' to do it. I'll always feel like I abandoned you."

"Abandoned?" Andy puzzled over the meaning of the word. "You keep promise, is all."

"Damned poor promise, the more I think about it." Rusty looked again toward the buzzards. "Maybe we ought to ride over there and have a look. It may not be a buffalo kill after all."

"I wish you turn back now."

"Just a little farther, Andy."

It was fully a mile to where the buzzards floated about. Two dark gray wolves skulked away as the horsemen approached. The wind carried an unmistakable smell of rotting flesh.

Scattered over a couple of hundred yards of ground were the leavings of a buffalo kill, heads, horns, intestines strung out by scavengers. Straight lines marked where travois had been used to haul the meat and hides. Rusty slapped at flies that buzzed around his face. "Let's get away from here."

They circled around upwind, away from the flies and the stench. "Looks like we've found your people. Or at least where they've been."

"I find them easy now. Better you go."

Rusty felt a catch in his throat as he faced Andy. "This is a lot harder than I figured." He offered his hand. "If you ever decide you want to change, you know where I live."

Andy accepted his hand, then pointed southeastward where scrub timber lined a small creek. "You go to trees, hide 'til dark."

Rusty's eyes burned as he turned away and touched spurs gently to Alamo's hide. When he had first found Andy, he had no thought that he would ever become so attached to the boy. He had assumed that relatives would soon come and fetch Andy away, and that would be the end of it. Rusty was, after all, a bachelor lacking in experience helpful in raising a youngster beyond what he could remember of his own raising by Daddy Mike and Mother Dora. He tried not to look back, but he could not help it.

What he saw made his heart leap. Andy was racing toward him. Behind Andy, Comanche warriors were running their horses hard.

Andy was shouting at him, but the wind tore the words away. The message was plain enough: run for the timber. Rusty put Alamo into a lope as Andy drew abreast of him. He said, "Didn't your spirits tell you about them?"

"Don't talk. Run."

"But they're your people. What're
you
runnin' for?"

"For you. We get to trees, I turn back and talk to them. Out here, they kill you first, then they talk."

The timber was thin, for the creek was narrow and barely running. Rusty slid Alamo to a halt, jumped to the ground, and grabbed his rifle.

Andy looked with disfavor at the weapon. "You don't shoot. They kill you sure."

Rusty knew it would be futile to fight. He might knock down two or three, but they would have him in a minute. Still, he wanted them to know he could. He wanted each warrior to contemplate the possibility that he might be one of the unlucky two or three.

The Indians stopped short of the timber and spread out in a ragged line. Andy said again, "You don't shoot. I go talk."

"You better talk real good."

Rusty could feel the pulse pounding in his neck. Dust choked him. He had to struggle for breath as he watched Andy ride out toward the Indians, one hand held high. The line contracted as the warriors drew back together to receive him. It soon became obvious that most recognized him. They greeted him as one lost and returned from the dead.

Rusty began to breathe easier. But it was one thing for them to accept Andy. He was a blood brother. Rusty was a blood enemy.

The conference continued awhile, then Andy turned and rode back toward Rusty. His face was grim. Rusty's hopes sagged.

Andy regarded him a moment before he spoke. "I tell them what you do for me. They say they don't kill you yet. They want council first."

"What would you give for my chances?"

"Tonkawa Killer is very bad man. He wants to kill you now. Others say wait, talk to my brother. My brother will help."

"I take it your brother's not here, but Tonkawa Killer is."

"My brother hunts. Will be in camp tonight."

Rusty weighed his options and found them dismal. If he broke and ran he would be lucky to get two hundred yards. To fire into that bunch would amount to the same quick suicide.

"I'll go along, I guess."

"Give me rifle so they know you don't fight."

"The minute I turn loose of this rifle, I'm helpless."

"You helpless now." Andy reached out. Grudgingly Rusty handed him the weapon.

"You were right, Andy. I ought to've turned back yesterday. But I just couldn't."

"Not be scared. My brother fix."

Don't be scared
. Easy to say for somebody who had never had to ride into a bunch of Comanche warriors with
kill
in their eyes. Rusty's skin crawled as if worms burrowed under it. The warriors quickly closed around him. He picked out one who appeared the most hostile and looked directly into his black and glittering eyes, trying to stare him down. It did not work.

Andy said, "That one is called Tonkawa Killer. Always he hates me. Calls me Texan boy. Wants me dead."

"Damned sure wants
me
dead. Look at him."

"When I break my leg, Tonkawa Killer there. Says it is good I die. Hit me with war club."

"He don't look happy to see you back."

"Afraid of my brother. He thinks I tell."

"You're goin' to, aren't you?"

"First I hear him talk. Then maybe I tell."

The Comanches conferred among themselves. Andy listened without comment. When the conference broke up, four of the warriors left the others and came to Rusty. They pointed northward and motioned for him to get on his horse.

Andy said, "The others go hunt some more. These take us to camp. Wait for my brother."

Rusty noted darkly that Tonkawa Killer was one of the four. "He looks like he might change his mind and kill both of us."

"Too afraid of my brother."

"Your brother must be a curly wolf."

Andy did not know the term. "No, his name means Steals the Ponies."

The warriors did not tie Rusty's hands. In their place, he thought, he might have done so. On the other hand, there would be no point in his trying to run. Where could he go? They would kill him in a minute.

He had been in enough Indian fights that the thought of another held no terrors, but never had he found himself trapped and helpless like this.

Only a damn fool .... he thought. Yet he knew he would take the same risk again if he felt it necessary for Andy.

The Indian camp was bustling with activity. Dogs barked at the incoming riders. Women were cutting buffalo meat into strips to be dried on racks hastily constructed of limbs and branches from trees along a nearby stream. Others cleaned the flesh from buffalo hides to be turned into robes and clothing and tepee coverings. The work stopped temporarily as women and children came to stare at the new arrivals. Tonkawa Killer shouted a few angry words. The crowd backed away but did not completely disperse.

Several women came and made a fuss over Andy. Everyone in camp seemed to know him. From their reactions, Rusty knew they had considered him forever lost. Only Tonkawa Killer appeared displeased at the boy's apparent resurrection from among his forefathers. If hate-filled looks could kill, Andy would have died a hundred times.

The women brought freshly cooked meat. Andy accepted it with pleasure. He motioned for Rusty to join him. The meat was not thoroughly cooked, but Rusty was too hungry to be choosy.

The first hunting party arrived awhile before sundown. Andy listened to the conversation, then told Rusty they had located another herd of buffalo, but it was too late in the day to begin a fresh kill. They would return in the morning for the slaughter.

"My brother is with others. He comes soon." Andy had a nervous eagerness about him. He walked to the edge of camp and stared off to the west. Rusty started to follow him but stopped when one of the warriors made a menacing gesture that told him to sit down. He sat.

There was no mistaking the arrival of Steals the Ponies. Apparently he had been told of Andy's return, for he raced ahead of the other hunters and galloped into camp without regard for the dust he raised or the roasting meat that it settled upon. He leaped to the ground. Andy ran to him, showing but little of his limp. They threw their arms around each other.

Rusty had long been told that Indian men were too stoic to cry. He saw that he had been misinformed. Steals the Ponies pushed Andy out to arm's length, tears in his eyes, and looked him over from head to foot as if he could not believe what he saw. Andy was telling him something in a language Rusty could not understand. He pointed to his leg, showing where it had been broken.

Tonkawa Killer broke into the joyous reunion. He pointed his finger at Andy, his voice loud and accusative. Whatever he said, it aroused anger and denial from Andy and a heated argument from Steals the Ponies. Watching, Rusty thought the quarreling men were about to come to blows. Steals the Ponies pushed himself in front of Andy and took a protective stance.

Tonkawa Killer pointed again, said a few words more, then turned on his heel and stalked away. Steals the Ponies shouted something after him, but Tonkawa Killer made a show of ignoring it. Several warriors followed him, evidently taking his side in the argument.

Cold dread settled in the pit of Rusty's stomach.

Andy led his brother to where Rusty sat. Rusty stood up, trying to look as if he had no concern. Steals the Ponies stepped close and lifted Rusty's hat from his head. His eyes widened.

Rusty asked, "What's he lookin' at?"

"Your hair. It is red. My brother say red hair big medicine."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good for me. You save me. Maybe not good for my brother."

"Tell him I don't mean him any harm. Tell him I want to be his friend." Rusty dropped his voice. "Tell him I want to get the hell away from here." He did not like the look of the conference Tonkawa Killer was having with his adherents.

Steals the Ponies and Andy went into another conversation while Rusty watched their faces and tried to decide whether it meant good news or not.

Andy turned. "My brother and me take you out of camp. We ride with you 'til you are safe from Tonkawa Killer."

"Tell your brother I am much obliged. I'm ready to start any time he is." Right now would not be too soon.

Steals the Ponies said something to one of the hunters. They brought up Rusty's and Andy's horses. Steals the Ponies made a motion for Rusty to mount. He did, quickly.

"Better get me my rifle, Andy."

Andy fetched it but handed it to Steals the Ponies. "Better my brother hold it. Give back when all is good."

Rusty felt naked and vulnerable without the rifle, but this was no time to bog down in details. "Sun'll be gone pretty soon. I want to put a lot of miles behind me while it's dark."

As they started to leave camp, Steals the Ponies turned to shout something at Tonkawa Killer. Whatever he said, it drew a response of raw malice.

Rusty said, "Looks to me like those two are ready to kill one another."