[Texas Rangers 04] - Ranger's Trail (21 page)

“
I’m not. I’m Newley.”

“
Where is Corey?”

Newley fought to bring his voice under control. “I don’t know. I came here lookin’ for him. Ain’t seen him in weeks.”

“
I don’t know if I ought to believe you or not. I think I ought to just shoot you on general principles.”

Newley began to cry.

Rusty felt pity, then disgust. He sensed that Newley was telling him the truth, badly as he wanted not to believe.

But he had to believe. He backed up a step and said, “If you ever do see Corey, tell him he can’t go so far that Rusty Shannon won’t find him. And when I find him, I’m goin’ to kill him.” He waved the muzzle at Newley for emphasis. Newley whimpered.

Rusty told the girl, “You ought to give him child’s rates. He’s not but half a man.”

He started out the door. He saw Fat Beulah and a policeman coming up the stairs. He turned back and shouted at Newley and the girl. “Now go on with what you were doin’.”

He knew Newley couldn’t, not now.

He gave Fat Beulah five dollars for the broken door and the policeman a like amount for his trouble. He did not have the heart to make all the saloons and gambling houses again tonight. He sensed that it would be futile.

Frustration was like acid foaming in his stomach. He just wanted to put Fort Worth behind him. He wondered how far he could ride before dark.

T
he captain gave Andy a little time to settle in and begin to feel at home before he sent him out of camp on any special duties. Unlike military service, the rangers did not require marching and close-order drill, but they did encourage target practice. The state offered a supply of ammunition to help make up for the fact that the men so far had to provide their own weaponry. Targets were marked on scrap bits of board and nailed to the heavy trunk of a pecan tree. A bank of earth behind would stop stray bullets, though any shot that missed hitting the board threw the shooter’s marksmanship into question.

Andy watched several rangers take their turns. The first board was soon splintered so badly it had to be replaced. Tanner missed centering the target by only about an inch.

Andy said, “Good shot.”

Tanner waved off the compliment. “Sun got in my eyes or I’d’ve hit it plumb center.”

Farley Brackett’s turn came before Andy’s. He hit the target almost squarely in the middle. Turning away, he ejected the spent cartridge from his rifle. “All right, Indian boy, let’s see if you can even hit the board.”

Riled, Andy resolved to do better. He took a deep breath, sighted down the barrel, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet cut into the edge of the hole left by Brackett’s shot. By a tiny fraction it was nearest to the center. Andy noticed the captain watching him with interest.

Brackett looked surprised. Then he frowned. “A target don’t shoot back. The trick is to do the same thing when you’re lookin’ down the muzzle of somebody’s gun.”

Andy let malice creep into his voice. “Somebody like the state police?”

“
I seldom shot at one but what I hit him.”

Andy could not argue with that. Burning with bitterness acquired on the battlefields, Brackett had become a terror to occupation officers who attempted to enforce reconstruction laws.

Tanner edged in between the two. He said, “Andy, you stick your right elbow out too far. Let’s go over yonder away from the crowd and practice holdin’ that rifle.”

Andy knew his stance was all right. It was the one Rusty had taught him. But he realized Tanner was trying to get him away before an argument started. “I’d be much obliged for anything you can show me.”

When they had moved apart from the other men Tanner looked back over his shoulder. “Ain’t really nothin’ wrong with the way you hold your elbow if it feels right to you. It don’t matter how you do it as long as you hit what you shoot at.”

“
I usually do.”

“
I’m just tryin’ to keep you from havin’ to aim at Farley Brackett, and him at you. One of you is just as good a shot as the other. You’d probably both go down.”

“
I don’t want any trouble with him. But he keeps pokin’ at me every chance he gets.”

“
A smart fish don’t grab at bait that’s got a hook in it.”

While Andy was taking the measure of the company, the captain had been taking the measure of him. One evening he assigned Andy to night horse guard. “Private Pickard, you will take first watch tonight.”

Andy was pleased. He had begun to wonder when or even if he would be given any real responsibility. “Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to.”

The captain gave him a quizzical look. “You don’t have to be glad around here. You just have to do what you’re told to, glad or not. And always be ready for the unexpected.”

After supper Andy saddled Long Red and checked his rifle.

Brackett leaned against a pecan tree, watching. “Where’s your bow and arrow?”

Andy tried not to let Brackett see that his tone stung a little. He pretended he did not hear.

Brackett turned to Jim Morris, just back from a lengthy and uneventful scout. “You know that boy was raised by the Indians? He’s a Comanche at heart.”

Jim retorted, “I know his heart has got a lot of fight in it. He helped me and Johnny and Len spike a Yankee cannon, with them Yankees shootin’ at us the whole time.”

That seemed to be news to Brackett. “When was that?”

“
Last January, when the carpetbaggers tried to hold onto the state capitol.”

“
How many of them did he scalp?”

“
Not more than five or six. He had to share with the rest of us.”

Andy decided Jim could hold his own in a lying contest with Tanner.

Jim said, “They tell me the Comanches called him Badger Boy. He fights like a cornered badger when he’s riled.”

Brackett appeared impressed, but that did not last long. As Andy started to ride away, Brackett said, “If any of your red brothers come callin’, don’t you let them get my sorrel horse, Badger Boy.” He spoke the name with derision.

Andy said, “Not them, and not you.”

Allowed to spread out and graze during the day, the horses had been brought close to camp and pushed into a fairly compact group that could be watched more easily during the night. Though Indians could strike a horse herd at any time, they favored darkness, when they were hard to see and hard to hit.

Andy had come to rely heavily upon his instincts. Sometimes, though by no means always, he had premonitions about future events. He supposed this resulted from hearing about visions that often came to the People like his foster brother, Steals the Ponies. On several occasions he had sought after visions himself, but they never came. Or if they came, they were so vague that he did not recognize them for what they were. Perhaps he had to be a real Comanche, not an adopted one, for visions to work.

He had no premonition tonight. Nevertheless he was determined to remain alert. He listened to night birds settling in the trees. Indians often imitated the sounds of birds and other creatures in signaling to each other. He did not intend to be fooled. The horses quieted down and began going to sleep, some lying down, others remaining on their feet. Now and then one would snort or stamp the ground or nip at a neighbor that crowded too closely. The one bitten would usually squeal and kick at its tormentor. These were all natural sounds. He catalogued them in his mind so he might recognize any that were not natural.

He had no watch, but Rusty had shown him how to tell time in a general way by the movement of the stars.

The camp routine had kept him busy enough during the days that he had not thought much about the farm. Now, in the long solitude of the night, he thought back on the place where he had spent the years since his return from life with the Comanches. He thought of Rusty and wondered where he was, what he was doing. He wondered if he had made headway in his search for Corey Bascom.

After getting past his initial reticence, Andy had told the captain about Josie Monahan’s death. The officer had written down Andy’s description of Bascom. “I’ll have every man add this to his fugitive list, and I’ll send it to the other companies,” he said.

Andy had been shown what was called a fugitive book, containing hand-written descriptions of wanted men. The offenses were many and varied: theft of livestock and personal property, burglary, fraud, robbery at gunpoint, assault with intent to do bodily injury, rape, murder … . The book was only partially filled, leaving room to add more miscreants to the list. That these pages would eventually be used up was a foregone conclusion. Texas was not a comfortable place for the timid.

No Indians were listed. Few of their names were known. Any found roaming freely within the state’s boundaries were automatically considered hostile and in open season, so a listing would have no purpose.

Andy had been instructed to read the book over and over, to memorize the descriptions in as much detail as possible so he might more easily recognize any fugitives he came across. It was considered likely that many were hiding in this thinly settled western country where law was scarce. Local lawmen varied in their diligence, some relentless in pursuit, others tolerant so long as the offenses had been committed elsewhere and were not repeated within their own jurisdiction. In these cases, rangers were the only peace officers likely to bring the offenders to hand.

Andy rode a slow circle around the horses, pausing to listen for any sound he considered alien. He thought the most effective solution would be to build a corral large enough to contain the herd at night. But this campsite was considered temporary. The company might be moved at any time, so nothing of a permanent nature had been constructed.

Even corraled, the horses would have to be watched. Accomplished horse thieves, red or white, could quietly dismantle a section of the enclosure and put the whole bunch on the move before the rangers could muster an adequate defense.

Eventually Andy’s relief rode out to take his place.

He called, “Where you at, Badger Boy?”

Andy recognized Farley Brackett’s gruff voice. He replied, “Here.” Choking down his dislike for the man, he moved over to meet him.

Brackett said, “Anything stirrin’ out yonder?”

“
I haven’t seen or heard a thing.”

“
You sure you ain’t been asleep? Nothin’ gets a man fired out of this outfit quicker than bein’ caught asleep on guard.”

“
My eyes are wide open. They have been all night.”

“
Glad to hear that. Been worried about my horse.”

“
Long Red is fine. You worry about the rest of the horses.”

Andy turned away. He looked forward to a few hours of sleep before daylight.

He heard a movement of horses behind him, then a shouted challenge. The voice was Brackett’s. “Who goes yonder?” He heard the jingle of Brackett’s spurs as the man put his mount into a run. Andy turned back, trying to see in the dim light of a half moon. Sound more than sight told him the horse herd was moving. A pistol shot echoed through the trees. He assumed it was Brackett’s.

He set Long Red into a lope, trying to circle around and head off the running horses. He heard the thieves holler, pushing for more speed. Andy overtook the moving herd and cut in front of it. He shouted, trying to turn the horses back. He fired his pistol into the air. Some of the animals slid to a stop, then ducked aside, frightened by the shot.

For a moment Andy saw the dark outline of a horseman. He brought his pistol up into line but hesitated. What if these were Comanches? What if his foster brother might be among them? Steals the Ponies had been given his name for good reason: he had earned it.

In a moment the question was moot, for the rider was lost in the darkness and the dust.

He saw a blur as another horseman came at him. He thought this was Brackett but he was mistaken. The man rammed his horse into Long Red. The impact knocked the sorrel off its feet and jarred Andy loose from the saddle. He grabbed at the horn but missed. He hit the ground hard on his left shoulder.

The rider loomed over him, his horse almost on top of Andy. Andy felt around desperately for the pistol lost in the fall. He had time for one terrible thought: that a Comanche brother was about to kill him. He saw the rider’s hand come down, steadying the pistol.

He heard a shot, but it did not come from the gun that had been leveled at him. The rider pitched forward over the horse’s neck. His body fell across Andy’s legs.

Brackett’s voice shouted, “Get up from there, Badger Boy. We got horse thieves to catch.” Brackett turned and disappeared again, his horse in a dead run.

Long Red had regained his feet. Andy pushed the heavy body off his legs. The Comanche side of him regretted the thought of an Indian being shot, though the white side rejoiced that it had not been him instead. Andy remounted and set out in a run after the horses. He heard a few more shots.

He fired at a shadowy figure which crossed his path but knew he had missed. In a way he was relieved.