The Outcasts (11 page)

N
ate rode next to Deerling, worrying the edges of Dr. Tom’s letter in his pocket with his fingers. The talk with the German woman had spooked him badly. He’d begun to imagine disasters in many forms visiting his own family. That he hadn’t yet received a letter from his wife served only to strengthen his growing disquiet.

Deerling had decided to travel directly to Harrisburg without stopping in Houston. Nate suspected it was his way of putting off hearing possible bad news about his partner, and Deerling remained quiet for a good while, his mouth downturned in thought.

Riding singly with the older ranger, without Dr. Tom’s affable, relaxed commentary on the weather, the terrain, or past events, with his head swiveling from side to side in constant movement, Nate observed how differently Deerling sat a horse when Dr. Tom wasn’t there: his face fixed in forward alignment with that of his mount, both hands on the reins, leaning into the rapid gait. Part of his alertness, Nate suspected, had to do with the horse itself, the stallion being young and more content to run than walk. But Deerling’s eyes swept the landscape in ceaseless fashion, as though he expected disaster at any turn.

Spending the few hours in Deerling’s company without the buffering presence of Dr. Tom had begun to make Nate’s nerves feel thin and spidery. He tried composing a letter to his wife in his head and was caught off guard when Deerling finally spoke to him. They had been riding for hours in silence and Nate twisted in his saddle to face him. “What?”

“I said, I should have let you talk to that woman. I’m too practiced in questioning violent men.”

Nate nodded, remembering the woman’s self-protective gestures. “She was scared.”

“With good reason. I’ve known McGill to backtrack and shoot a survivor. In Houston, McGill shot a man in a card dispute. The man survived and was taken to the same doctor’s clinic where Tom is now. McGill walked through the doctor’s front door, went up the stairs, and shot the man in the heart while he lay in bed recovering.”

Nate took note of the satisfaction in Deerling’s retelling of the story, his grim enthusiasm for the efficiency of the perpetrator, and he said, “I guess it was a good idea, then, your not telling Mrs. Shenck that, or Tom.”

Deerling cut his eyes to Nate but he finally pointed to Nate’s new Winchester and asked, “You fired it yet?”

“Not yet.”

Deerling legged himself off his horse and motioned Nate down as well. “Let’s see what distance we get out of it.”

Deerling paced off a hundred yards and Nate fired a few rounds into the trunk of a tree. He was pleased with the compactness of design, the ease of the lever action, and the accuracy. Deerling then walked out another fifty yards and Nate toppled a chokeberry tree, splitting the narrow trunk in half.

The ranger returned, held out a hand for the rifle, and fired twice into the nearer tree, splintering bark both times. “You may squeeze out a few more yards,” he said, handing the rifle back to Nate, “but you’re not likely to be doing any great distance shooting with it anyway.” He pointed with two fingers to his eyes. “You’ll want to be close up when you engage.”

Nate held the rifle upright at his side, resting the half-moon curve of the stock on his thigh. “Thank you for this.”

Deerling nodded, shifting self-consciously, and looked away. “Many a time the thing that saved me was not my accuracy but the sheer number of weapons I had to hand, the number of rounds I could fire off. We’ll make sure, Tom and me, that you’re outfitted properly.”

They watched the clouds approaching from the Gulf, mountainous, gray, and featureless on the underside, but white and rounded high up, covering over the morning sun and diffusing the light. And yet the grass and a few large cedar trees on the eastern horizon showed in sharp relief.

“Tom looked bad when we left,” Deerling said. “I think he’s appreciated all your consideration. I know I do.”

He put his back to Nate for a moment and then walked to his horse and pulled the Whitworth from its saddle case. He pointed to one of the bare trees in the distance and asked, “Would you say that’s a good quarter mile away?”

Nate considered the distance and said, “About.”

Deerling then handed him the rifle. “Here, why don’t you take a shot. You’ll be one of the few men who can say he’s fired a Whitworth.”

Nate, awkward with this unexpected gesture, managed to smile, and said, “Thanks, Captain.”

Deerling showed Nate how to sight down the brass side scope and explained how to load the powder and wadding and how to ramrod the hexagonal bullet down the barrel.

“You’ll be able to take one shot, and one shot only. I have just five bullets left,” Deerling said.

He let Nate take his time centering the target within the reticles of the scope. Nate pulled back the hammer, but before he could squeeze off the shot, Deerling placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I just need to know one thing, Nate,” Deerling said. “I need to know that whatever order I give you from now on, you’re going to follow it, or it will not go well for one of us.”

He took his hand away and Nate kept his eye focused on the scope. Deerling’s voice had been carefully neutral, but every gesture the man made seemed to be a show of strength, couched in a warning and tethered to some vague threat, like the big bite, given to him under the guise of merciful relief for some unforeseen danger.

Nate exhaled slowly, resighted, and pulled the trigger; his shoulder jerked violently with the explosion, and the ridge around his right eye smarted from the scope’s recoil into his face.

They walked to the tree, leading their horses, counting off the distance—over six hundred yards. Nate saw that although he hadn’t hit the center of the tree, the shot had torn the bark off its side like an artillery shell.

Deerling scratched at the splintered wood with a fingernail and smiled. “Not one man in fifty could have made that shot, Nate. You’ll be useful yet.”

They mounted and rode at a faster pace, making Harrisburg before noon. After settling their horses into the stable, they walked up the main street and into the marshal’s office.

The marshal, a big man named Prudone, listened to Deerling recount their search across the entire state and then regarded them in frank disbelief. “Where did you say you started from?”

“Franklin,” Deerling said, casting a critical eye at the man’s desk, which was scattered with papers and the remnants of past meals.

“You must want McGill bad.” The marshal shook his head. “That was cowardly business in Houston. But he’s long gone.”

“I don’t think so.”

Prudone appraised Deerling with a half smile. Nate had initially thought the marshal looked like a man whose greatest battle in recent years had been finding a way to fasten his belt. But now, looking closer, he wasn’t so sure that was the case.

Prudone made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Believe me, if McGill was still in the county, I’d know about it. I’ve got reliable scouts and more than a few deputies. There’s been no upset within the past month other than the cattle thieves we adjudicated yesterday. The six of them are stacked up like cordwood now outside the undertaker’s.”

A small vessel under Deerling’s eye pulsed. He said, “Then you won’t mind if we spend the night in your quiet town.”

“No, Captain, you’re certainly welcome.” The smile had disappeared. “We have two fine saloons, a beer hall, and a bordello that is, so I’ve heard, clean. Just a couple rules, and one suggestion. First, don’t carry your guns into the cathouse. It annoys the regulars. Second, no card-playing past midnight, because it annoys me. And finally: I’m a federal marshal. I trump both you and your governor-appointed friend here. My suggestion is you remember that.”

Deerling looked at the marshal for a moment but then nodded and motioned for Nate to follow him out. Halfway down the street, Deerling and Nate crossed to the other side, and the two of them stood in the shadow of a storefront, watching the door to the marshal’s office.

Nate asked, “What’re we doing?”

“Wait and see.”

The door opened and the marshal walked in the opposite direction from them, then entered a building with a sign reading
Texas
and New Orleans Telegraph Company.
A few minutes later, he emerged and returned to his office.

Nate followed Deerling back up the street to the telegraph office, and they stood for a moment outside, peering through the window. The operator, a man with the creased and worried face of a hound, was sitting behind a shallow counter, alone in the room.

Nate said to Deerling, “Just find a way to give me a moment alone in there, without him in the room.”

The ranger nodded and they walked in and greeted the operator.

Deerling said, “I’d like to send a message to a fellow ranger at Company E at Fort Inge, but I don’t know if the telegraph goes that far.”

“Fort Inge?” the operator said. “God help your friend, then, sir. They were just attacked by about five hundred Comanche and Lipan. I can send the telegraph to Austin, but that’s as far as it goes. Then it’s mule relay.”

Deerling engaged the operator for a while, listening to the gruesome particulars of the attack, the number of injured and killed. Finally, he asked the man to point out the best place for a meal and led him onto the porch. It took only a moment for Nate to peer over the counter and read the destination of the previous telegraph sent by the marshal.

The men thanked the operator, and when he called after them asking if they still wanted to send the telegram, Deerling shook his head somberly and said, “No. I don’t believe my friend will need it now.”

Twenty paces on Deerling asked, “Well?”

Nate said, “Lynchburg.”

“What did the message say?”

“Just three words.
Texas law here.
”

Deerling sucked air through his teeth and for the second time that day put a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “We’re close.”

They wandered in and out of the two saloons but it wasn’t until the beer hall that they got anything beyond cold stares and nervous tics. There were a few older men seated at a table; the rest of the room was empty.

Once the barkeep had heard their story, he looked grim. He rested his elbows on the bar, keeping his voice low. “I heard what happened to that family. The woman lived, you say? Well, I don’t know what kind of blessing that is, seeing her husband and children are dead.

“Listen, I was sheriff in Goliad before I opened this place. It steams me no end to see what’s goin’ on.”

The barkeep was quiet for a moment, letting two of the customers shuffle past and out into the street.

He then leaned over the bar towards Deerling again and said, “McGill was here, him and two others, a few months ago. McGill has more than a nodding acquaintance with our marshal. Prudone gives them protection and they give him a take. I tell you, one of these days someone is going to settle on Prudone with a bullet to the skull.”

“McGill have any keen interests the last time he was here?”

The barkeep walked to the far end of the bar, squatted down, reached behind a salt barrel, and pulled out a small sack. He put his hand in the sack and palmed something. Making sure the customers weren’t watching, he placed what he was holding on the bar in front of Deerling. It was a gold coin, larger than a quarter, nicked and slightly concave, as though something of great weight had rolled over it.

“A man came in here a few times. He was some kind of farmer, and not a very successful one. Drank a few beers and he started talking. Tellin’ everyone within earshot that he’d found gold on his land. I didn’t pay him any mind, but the story must have spread, because McGill showed up and started buying him whiskey at the saloon, trying to make him talk more. Something about it rattled the farmer, though, because he left town. But not before stopping off for one last beer. He didn’t have any money left except this. Well, he plops it down on the counter and I just about broke my jaw. I don’t know much about coins, but I know it’s old. He said it was just one of many. A whole treasure’s worth. He paid for that last beer with this.”

Deerling picked up the coin and turned it in his hands. He showed Nate the markings on the coin, and Nate said, “That’s not any Confederate money.”

Deerling asked the barkeep, “You gonna find some trouble over this?”

“Not if you don’t tell anyone.”

“What was the farmer’s name?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the honest-to-God truth.”

“Where’d he come from?”

“Not sure. I’d never seen him before.” The barkeep took the coin back from Nate. “But he might have told McGill where he was from. He was sure drunk enough. And in that case, if that farmer is still alive, it’s only because McGill hasn’t found his gold yet.”

 They thanked him and walked a ways, looking for a place to eat their dinner. They found a small boardinghouse with a dining room, ate, and lingered for a while drinking coffee. It was growing dark as a man came in and sat at an empty table. From time to time he snuck a look at Deerling.

Nate started to say something, but Deerling said, “Yes, I see him.”

Nate angled his face away from the watching man. “How did you know Prudone was lying?”

“Just a sense.” Deerling took a drink out of his cup. “On principle, I don’t trust any man that would use the word
adjudicated
.”

“Are we leaving tonight?”

“I think we should.”

“We goin’ to Lynchburg?”

“No, we need Tom on this. We’ll ride back to Houston and start back as soon as he can sit a horse.”

“You think he’s going to be all right?”

“Why? You know something I don’t?”

“No. He just seemed pretty sick.”

“Tom’s a tough bird.”

They paid for their meal and, after retrieving their horses from the stable, rode for Houston. The night was clear, with the lingering kind of light that turns the sky turquoise before it goes black. A Roman sky, Dr. Tom had once called it, which to Nate’s mind sounded fanciful, a description Dr. Tom had probably read in one of his books.

There was no moon, but the brightest stars were beginning to appear, and the road was level and worn fine. A cold wind coaxed the horses to a fast walk, Deerling’s big bay straining at the reins to outpace Nate’s gelding. They would be in Houston before midnight.