Read [Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta Online

Authors: Elmer Kelton

Tags: #Texas Rangers, #Western Stories, #Vendetta, #Texas, #Fiction

[Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta (5 page)

BOOK: [Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta
2.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Once Bransford and Landon were secured in jail, Farley and Andy reported to Ranger headquarters at the state capitol. It was a matter of form. Farley said he hoped local Rangers would be assigned to finish delivering the prisoners, but the officer in charge simply wished him an uneventful trip.

Andy was pleased, for he had counted on a visit to Rusty’s farm. “Like it or not, Farley, you ought to see your mother and sister. They’ll be disappointed if they find out you got so close and didn’t stop.”

“Mind your own business.”

They left town on borrowed horses, for two hard days’ travel had exhausted their own. Toward the end of the second day out of Austin they turned Bransford over to Sheriff Tom Blessing as ordered. Blessing, a large, blocky man built like a blacksmith, had known Andy since he had returned from his life with the Comanches. Andy asked him about Rusty and black Shanty York and others he knew around the county.

“Rusty’s got thin enough to hide behind a fence post. He don’t sleep enough and don’t eat right. Still grievin’ over that girl he lost. He’s got a good crop in the field, though. As for Shanty, you know how it is with them darkies: you can’t tell their age by lookin’. That black skin hides the lines.”

Andy said, “I’ll be goin’ by to see Rusty once we’ve delivered this other prisoner.”

Blessing frowned. “The word’s already out that you’re on the way with Jayce Landon. There’s liable to be people waitin’ for you. If I was you I’d deliver him in the dark of the night.”

Farley had been listening to the conversation. “And act like we’re afraid of his friends?”

“He’s got more enemies than friends. If I was you, I’d be afraid of them all.”

CHAPTER THREE

 

Rusty Shannon leaned on his hoe and looked beyond the waving green corn toward a dark cloud boiling on the horizon. One more soaking rain should finish bringing the corn and his other crops to maturity.

I wish Josie could have been here to see this, he thought. But the prospect of rain brought no real pleasure. Very little did anymore, not since Josie had died.

A rider approached him, mounted on a mule. Rusty recognized Old Shanty’s slight, bent form and walked out to the edge of the field to meet him. He removed his hat to wipe sweat from his brow and the reddish hair that had given him his nickname. Sprinkled with gray, it was uncut and shaggy because he’d lost interest in his appearance. He had not shaved in a week.

He lifted his hand in what he meant to be a welcoming wave, though it fell short. “Get down, neighbor, and give that old mule a rest.”

Many white men would not shake hands with a black. Rusty did so without thought. Shanty had been a friend too long for racial proprieties to stand in the way.

“How do, Mr. Rusty. Kind of hot. Buildin’ up to a summertime shower, looks like.”

Shanty always addressed him as Mister. He had spent a major part of his seventy or so years as a slave, and old habits died hard, if at all. He had inherited a small farm from his former owner. For a time he had had to struggle to hold it in the face of opposition from some in the community who resented his being an owner of property. That battle had been fought to a standstill with help from Rusty, Andy, and others like Sheriff Tom Blessing who had kindly feelings toward him.

Since losing Josie, Rusty had found it difficult to arouse much interest in his own farm. He frequently rode over to Shanty’s place to help him with heavy work that had become too much for the old man to handle alone. In return Shanty felt obliged to repay in kind, whether Rusty needed his help or not. He had spent more time in Rusty’s garden than Rusty had.

Rusty said, “I judge by the direction that you’re not comin’ from your own place.”

“I been over to Mr. Fowler Gaskin’s, helpin’ him work his vegetable patch. Hoed his weeds. Picked him some squash and beans and tomatoes so he’s got somethin’ to eat. He’s a sick man, Mr. Gaskin is.”

Rusty snorted. “Sick of work, mostly. That old reprobate has enjoyed bad health ever since I can remember.”

Gaskin was notorious for sloth, feigning illness and using his age as a crutch. He had made an art of chiseling others into doing for him the work he did not want to do for himself. His neighbors had long since learned to watch their property when he came around because he was likely to leave with some of it.

Rusty said, “You’ve done a lot of work for him, and I’ll bet he hasn’t paid you a dollar.”

Shanty shrugged. “Mr. Gaskin’s a poor man. Besides, the Book says I am my neighbor’s keeper.”

“He never was your keeper. He did his damndest to run you out of this country. He was one of them that burned your cabin down.”

“We never did know that for certain sure. We just supposed. Anyway, I can’t be grudgin’ agin a sick old man. He says it won’t be long till he’s knockin’ on them Pearly Gates.”

Rusty could think of few things that would improve the community more than a funeral service for Fowler Gaskin. People would come from miles around to attend, just to be sure he was gone. No hog pen or chicken house was safe so long as he drew breath.

Shanty said, “He’s been speakin’ remorseful about all the wrong things he’s done. Cries when he talks about his two boys that was killed in the war.”

For years Gaskin had been using his sons’ death in an effort to arouse sympathy. Most people around here had learned the truth long ago, that his sons had not died in battle. They had been killed in a New Orleans bawdy-house brawl.

“That’s just to get you to do his work for him, and do it for nothin’. He still hates you, but that doesn’t mean he won’t use you.”

Shanty shrugged. “I’m just tryin’ to serve the Lord any which way I can. Someday I may be old and sick myself. Maybe Mr. Gaskin will come and help me.”

Perhaps, when cows fly over the moon, Rusty thought. It was pointless to continue the argument. Shanty was of a trusting nature. Freedom had not come to him until well into his middle age. Up to then it would have been considered presumptuous of him, even dangerous, to pass judgment on anyone white. Now he did not know how.

Rusty made up his mind to ride over to Fowler Gaskin’s soon and read the gospel to him.

Shanty gave Rusty a quiet appraisal. “You’re lookin’ kind of lank, Mr. Rusty. Ain’t you been eatin’?”

“It’s been too hot to eat.”

“It don’t ever get that hot. That girl’s still heavy on your mind, ain’t she?”

“Some things ain’t easy forgot.”

“You don’t have to forget. Just take the things that trouble you and set them on a high shelf where you won’t be lookin’ at them all the time.”

“I’ve tried, but life has sort of lost its flavor around here.”

“Maybe supper would taste better to you if somebody else cooked it. I could stay and fix you somethin’.”

“Thanks, but by the looks of that cloud, you’d better be goin’ home before you get soaked. I’ll fix for myself if I get hungry.”

Shanty soon left. Rusty knew it was too late to visit Gaskin. Tomorrow would be soon enough, or the next day. The extra time would allow him to think of more shortcomings to call to Gaskin’s attention.

He was about ready to quit the field and do the evening milking when another visitor appeared. Rusty had counted Tom Blessing as a friend as far back as he could remember. Tom was a contemporary of Daddy Mike Shannon, who had been a foster father to Rusty. As a small boy more than thirty years ago, Rusty had been carried away by Indians after they killed his parents. Unlike Andy Pickard, he had been rescued a few days later. Because of Daddy Mike and Tom Blessing and several others, he had not spent years among the Comanches as Andy had.

After howdying and shaking, Rusty said, “Follow me up to the cabin, Tom. I’ll fix us some coffee and warm up the beans.”

“Beans.” Tom gave Rusty the same critical study that Shanty had. “You don’t look like you’ve been eatin’ regular, not beans or anything else.”

“It don’t taste all that good when you’re by yourself.”

“You oughtn’t to be by yourself.”

Tom had been arguing that Rusty needed a wife. He even had one picked for him. But the suggestion stirred up painful memories Rusty was still struggling to cope with. He side-stepped the subject. “I could fry up some bacon.”

“Sorry, but I ain’t got time. Need to get home and do the chores before it rains.” Tom pointed with his chin. “I happened into Shanty on the road. Said he’d been by here.”

“He was over at Gaskin’s, doin’ work Fowler ought to do for himself. Fowler needs a load of fire and brimstone dropped on him.”

Blessing smiled. “If you do it, just don’t kill him. The court docket’s already full enough.” He looked toward the building cloud. “I’d best get into a high lope.”

The cloud had grown considerably since Rusty had last paid attention to it. “And I’d better get the cow milked. Need to carry some dry wood into the house too.”

The cow was waiting at the milk-pen gate. Her calf was penned inside so that the two were separated all day. Rusty allowed the calf to nurse long enough that the cow let down her milk, then penned the cow and took the milk he needed for his own use. Done, he let the calf in again to finish what remained.

The cloud was coming up rapidly. Rusty hurried to the cabin with the bucket of milk, set it on the kitchen table, and went outside to fetch in a couple of days’ supply of dry wood for the fireplace. He had barely finished when the rain started. The drops were large and in the first moments struck the ground with force enough that they raised dust.

He became aware of a roaring noise, rapidly growing louder. He knew immediately that it was hail.

“Oh damn,” he said under his breath.

The air, so warm earlier, quickly chilled. The initial stones were no larger than the first joint of his little finger. Quickly, however, they became much larger, hammering the ground. Though he stood in the shelter of the open dog run, some of the hailstones bounced up and rolled against his feet. He stepped back into the kitchen door. The impact of ice pellets against the roof was loud as thunder. Soon the ground was white as if a heavy snow had fallen.

He shivered, but some of the cold came from within. An hour ago he had every prospect of a good crop. Now he wondered if a stalk remained standing.

As quickly as it had come, the hailstorm was gone. A slow, steady rain followed, the kind of rain he had needed in the first place. Water dripped down into the cabin from holes in the roof. He would have to replace a lot of shingles, perhaps all of them.

He pulled a slicker over his shoulders and stepped out to survey the damage. He did not have to walk all the way to the field. He could see it through the rain. Everything in it was beaten to the ground.

He had known people who worked off their frustrations with a burst of profanity. He stood in stony silence, shivering from the cold wind that had come with the hail. Rain rolled off the brim of his hat and spilled down his shoulders.

He saw a couple of dead chickens on their backs, their legs in the air. They had not made it to the shelter of the crude henhouse. Hailstones floated in the spreading puddles of rainwater.

Feeling as if a horse had kicked him in the belly, he trudged back to the cabin, mud clinging to his boots. He had to move the bucket of milk because water was dripping into it. He brewed a pot of coffee and slumped into a chair, holding a framed photograph from the mantel over the fireplace. His throat tightened as he studied the face that smiled at him from the picture.

His shoulders were strong. They could bear this new burden; they had to. But they would bear it better if Josie could have been here.

He imagined what old Preacher Webb would say: The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

Rusty bowed his head. He sure as hell took it all, he thought.

 

 

The light of day brought no comfort. The rain was gone, and the morning sun was bright through breaking clouds. He walked first to the garden, where his tomato and okra vines looked as if a herd of cattle had trampled them. He had not removed the two dead hens. The other chickens pecked around them, oblivious to their sisters’ fate. Some were half-naked, feathers stripped away.

His field was a muddy ruin. The only salvage he could see was to turn cattle in on it when the ground dried enough. They might find a few days’ forage. But he would have nothing to put in his corncrib, much less to haul to town and sell.

He was well aware that a farmer’s life was a constant gamble. Each year he bet his land, labor, and personal welfare against the threats of drought, excessive rainfall, heat, and untimely cold as well as insects and various orders of blight. Every so often the farmer would lose his bet, and the best he could hope for was a better next year.

Next year seemed a long way off, for this was still summer.

Rusty returned to the cabin and fixed breakfast, though he could bring himself to eat but little.

Tom Blessing rode up and hollered. His eyes were sympathetic as Rusty walked out to meet him. “Just ridin’ around checkin’ on my neighbors,” Tom said. “Looks like that hail knocked the whey out of you.”

Rusty could only shrug. “What about your place?”

BOOK: [Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta
2.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Feminism by Margaret Walters
Water by Hardy, Natasha
Clover by Cole, Braxton
Dark Matter by Brett Adams
Against A Dark Background by Banks, Iain M.
The Venetian Judgment by Stone, David