[Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta (26 page)

“That’ll do. Saddle him or ride bareback, I don’t care which.”

Looking back in anxiety, Gaskin trotted awkwardly toward the barn. Big’un tossed the shotgun through the cabin’s open door and heard it clatter on the floor. He said, “I ought to shoot the old rascal on general principles.”

Harp said, “I doubt that many folks would show up for the funeral.”

Gaskin led the saddled mule from the corral. He had regained a little of his bluster, but not much. “I’ll be tellin’ Tom Blessing about this. He don’t let people come into his county and mistreat the voters.”

“Stop talkin’. Get on that mule and ride.”

Big’un was a little surprised by the neatness of Shanty’s little farm. The garden and the field had been hoed. The crops looked healthy, in contrast to Gaskin’s. He said, “I thought this place belonged to a darky.”

Gaskin said, “It does. Mine used to look like this before I got down in my back.”

He must have been down in his back for a long time, Big’un thought. It took years for a place to get as run down as Gaskin’s.

Shanty was standing in front of a small frame shed, brushing a mule’s back. He tried for a smile but could not mask his uneasiness.

Big’un asked Gaskin, “Is this the man who harbored Tennyson and the boy?”

“I’d bet a thousand dollars.”

“You never saw a thousand dollars.” Big’un turned to Shanty. “We know you took the Tennyson boy to town. Where’s his daddy?”

Shanty considered a minute before he offered any reply. “I ain’t got no idee.”

Big’un assumed the old man was lying. He swung his quirt, striking Shanty across the shoulder. “I ain’t got the patience to play games with you, boy. Where’s he at?”

Shanty rubbed the burning shoulder. “I swear, mister, I don’t know.”

Big’un lashed him again. “That ain’t the answer I want to hear. Try again.”

Shanty’s body shook, but he stood his ground. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“He was with you. He’s bound to’ve told you somethin’.”

“He didn’t tell me nothin’. Said it was better for me not to know.”

Gaskin’s courage had improved. He said, “These old darkys will lie to you every time. Give me that quirt and I’ll put the fear of God into him.”

Big’un suspected Gaskin was afraid he might not get his money if Shanty did not tell his tormentors what they wanted to hear. “Back away, Gaskin, before I use the quirt on you.” He struck Shanty across the back. The old man flinched and choked off a cry.

Big’un said, “I’ll bet you got aplenty of whip scars on you, old man. You’ll have a bunch more if you don’t talk.”

Shanty drew up into a knot. “I been tellin’ you the truth. That’s all I can do.”

Big’un raised the quirt again. Harp caught his arm. “You’re fixin’ to kill him. You don’t want another killin’ on your conscience.”

Big’un’s chin dropped. “What do you mean, another killin’?”

Harp’s eyes narrowed. “I expect you know what I mean.”

“Who you been listenin’ to? Somebody been makin’ talk?”

Harp’s face twisted. “There’s several wonderin’ why you want that old man and his boy so bad, seein’ as they eliminated Oscar Truscott and got you the sheriff’s job.”

Big’un’s eyes smoldered. “Is that them talkin’, or is it just you?”

Harp raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I ain’t doubtin’ you a particle. I’m with you all the way. I’m just tellin’ you what some folks are sayin’.”

“Don’t you be listenin’ to people who make idle talk. You just listen to me.”

“I am, Big’un, I am.”

Gaskin understood none of the conversation. He watched, frustrated. “Are you quittin’? You just fixin’ to ride away without him tellin’ you what you came to find out?”

Harp glared at him. “Looks to me like he’s told all he knows. There’s no use beatin’ a dead horse.”

Gaskin got down from his mule. “He ain’t dead yet. I’ll make him talk.” Shanty drew his arms in tightly as Gaskin moved toward him.

Big’un pushed his horse between the two men. “I told you, Gaskin. Get back on your mule.” He raised the quirt for emphasis.

Gaskin backed away. “I done my part. You owe me.”

Big’un felt like quirting Gaskin, but instead, he dug a silver dollar from his pocket. He tossed it to the ground in front of the man.

Gaskin picked up the coin and flushed in anger. “A dollar? Is this all, just one dollar?”

“It’s a dollar more than you’re worth. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it back.”

Gaskin put the coin in his pocket.

Big’un shook the quirt at him. “Now get away from here before I give you what you really got comin’.” To Harp he said, “I hate a man who would betray his neighbor for money. Even a nigger neighbor.”

Hunched in pain, Shanty watched as Gaskin got a handhold on the mule’s ragged mane and pulled himself up. He said, “Mr. Fowler, my old dog died, but I’m fixin’ to get me another one.”

Gaskin snarled, “Your old dog was worthless. What you want another one for?”

“So that if you ever come messin’ around my place again, I can sic him on you.”

Gaskin’s face colored. He turned to Big’un and Harp. “You-all goin’ to let a nigger talk to a white man that way?”

Big’un said in disgust, “I don’t see no white man.”

In the midst of Big’un’s frustration an idea began struggling to break free. Smoke him out, Harp had suggested. Harp was about to speak, but Big’un raised a hand to stop him, to keep him from interrupting his thoughts before the idea was fully hatched. He asked, “They still got the same old jailhouse?”

“Not much ever changes over there.”

“I spent a night in that place once, years ago. They said I was drunk and disorderly.”

Harp grinned. “Was you?”

“I expect so. Ain’t been back in that town since. I decided not to give them any more of my business.”

“It’s their loss, then.”

Big’un cast a glance over his shoulder to be sure Gaskin wasn’t following to plead for more money. The old reprobate had put the reluctant mule into a long trot toward home. “How many people they got standin’ guard at the jail durin’ the night?”

“Generally a night watchman patrollin’ the street outside. Three Rangers and the sheriff sleep inside. A deputy usually goes home.”

Big’un rubbed his chin while he let his imagination run free. “Ought not to be hard to take care of the watchman. A couple of guns at the front door and one or two at the back could keep anybody who’s inside from comin’ out.”

“What good will it do you if they stay inside? You couldn’t get at them.”

“That old jail is mostly built out of lumber. Say a fire was to start along the outside wall. That thing would go up fast, and if them on the inside couldn’t get out—well, wouldn’t that be a shame?”

Harp stared slack-jawed, awed by Big’un’s audacity.

Big’un said, “First I’d like to know just what’s goin’ on in that place. I need a man to see inside. I want you to find me somebody who’ll do anything for fifty dollars.”

“There’s aplenty of them around.”

“This has to be somebody Jayce nor nobody else in that jail would recognize. Somebody who wouldn’t mind gettin’ a little drunk and disorderly and spendin’ a night or two in the hoosegow. But somebody we can rely on.”

“That’s some combination.”

“Find him.”

“You’re goin’ to a lot of trouble just to get rid of Jayce Landon.”

“That boy too. Let somethin’ happen to him and like as not his old daddy would come runnin’. All I need is one clear shot. Now let’s go where I can get me a bottle of whiskey. I got some thinkin’ to do.”

Used to being in Rusty Shannon’s shadow, Andy was pleased at Rusty’s attitude. He seemed to be leaning Andy’s way in regard to Scooter.

Tom Blessing was still trying to make up his mind. He said, “The boy’s fevered. Maybe he really saw what he says happened, or maybe it’s the fever made him think he did. No jury is goin’ to take his word against a lawman’s.”

Andy argued, “Even a good lawman goes bad once in a while, and Big’un’s been a counterfeit from the start.”

“I’ve known some lawmen who were bad to start with. Others learned it on their own. But I can’t belive anything as cold-blooded as the boy tells about.”

Rusty put in, “Whether it’s real or he imagined it, Scooter’s better off in here till everything settles into place. If Big’un did kill Truscott, he’ll be lookin’ to silence the boy. If it was Lige that did it, he’ll probably stay around close so he can know what’s happenin’ to Scooter. That gives us a better chance to catch him.”

Scooter lay on a steel cot in one of the cells. The iron-barred door was left open, for he was not technically a prisoner. Flora sat on the edge of the cot, keeping a damp cloth on the boy’s head. She had all but adopted Scooter as soon as she first saw him. She had never had a child of her own. Andy doubted that this was for lack of trying on Jayce’s part.

Jayce feigned jealousy. From his cell he shouted, “Darlin’ girl, you’re payin’ more attention to that boy than to your poor old neglected husband.”

Flora tried to sound sarcastic. “He’s younger, he’s better-lookin’, and he’s got nothin’ on his conscience.”

“He will have by the time he gets a little older. Show me somebody who’s got nothin’ on his conscience and I’ll show you somebody who’s spent his life asleep.”

Listening, Andy conceded to himself that his own conscience sometimes troubled him when he had time to pay attention to it. In his first years back in the white man’s world after his time among the Comanches, he had given those who befriended him plenty of reason to wonder if they should have left him where he was. He had caused anxiety for Rusty in particular. Looking back, he could well understand how Rusty might have given up on him, especially when he threatened to run away and rejoin the Comanches. Instead, Rusty had taken him back to the Indians at considerable danger to himself. Andy had found it impossible to remain in that other world, though even now he still grieved over having lost his place in it. He sometimes questioned if he belonged in this one either.

The hard truth was that he did not fit comfortably in either world, white or red.

Jayce Landon had talked Tom into bringing a couple of forked tree branches to his cell so he could fashion a set of crutches for Scooter. He had promised, “I ain’t fixin’ to hit anybody over the head with them. The boy needs to be gettin’ up and movin’ around some. He’ll need help with his walkin’.”

Now he had a pile of wood shavings in the cell. He had trimmed away the bark and smoothed the surface with a pocketknife borrowed from Tom. He said, “These things’ll need some cloth wrappin’ to see that they don’t rub sores under his arms. Otherwise, they’re finished.”

Tom said, “If they’re finished, I’ll thank you to give me back that knife.” He extended his hand.

Jayce acted embarrassed. He handed the knife back through the bars. “Sorry. I almost forgot.”

Andy knew Jayce had not forgotten anything, but he had hoped the sheriff would. Tom Blessing seldom forgot anything important.

Flora said, “I’ll finish them up.” She started back toward Jayce’s cell, but Tom stopped her. He had never allowed her within reaching distance of her husband. He knew about her slipping a derringer to Jayce in the Hopper’s Crossing jail.

He said, “I’ll bring the crutches to you. Slide them out here, Jayce.” Almost apologetically he added, “I appreciate what you two are doin’ for the boy, but I can’t afford much trust. Given the slightest chance I think you’d be out of here like a turpentined cat.”

Jayce shrugged. “I told you that when I first came.”

Flora wrapped cotton cloth around the top of the crutches as padding. “Feel like givin’ them a try, Scooter?”

The boy turned himself around and cautiously put one foot on the floor. He had to use both hands to get the other leg into place. His face twisted with pain. Andy hurried to help him. “Does it hurt?”

Scooter grimaced. “Sure it hurts. But lift me up and see if I can fit them things under my arms.” He was wobbly. Andy kept hold of him so he would not fall.

Scooter said, “I feel like I’m goin’ down flat on my face. A little dizzy too.”

“Don’t be in a hurry. It’ll take you a while to get the knack.” He remembered a time long ago when a horse fall had left him with a broken leg. The crutches at first had seemed bent on bringing him down.

Tom asked, “Rusty, what did you find out about that bunch of riders who came to town this mornin’?”

Rusty said, “They were just Mexican traders bringin’ a string of half-broke horses to sell to the farmers hereabouts. There wasn’t a Hopper amongst them.”

Tom said, “Strangers worry me, but the merchants wouldn’t abide me turnin’ them back at the edge of town. Visitors bring in money.”

“It wouldn’t be hard for a bunch of the Hoppers to slip into town at night. They’d love to get a clean shot at Jayce.”

“That’s why I put him in a cell that ain’t got a window in it. As long as he stays there he’s as safe as in church. Then after the judge gets here …” Tom did not finish. He did not have to.

Andy frowned. Flora did not deserve to be reminded constantly that her husband had an appointment with a rope. He said, “I need some fresh air. I think I’ll go take me a little walk around town.”