[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (37 page)

He had not been surprised when their approach to the small log cabin was greeted by gunfire. Most of the warriors had been willing to pass it by and settle for the four horses they saw in the corral, but Buffalo Caller fretted over not having taken Texan scalps. The cabin looked vulnerable, and he had led the assault.

Now they stood in danger of losing all the horses they had gathered and perhaps a few of the warriors themselves. He dreaded the blame the young men would fasten upon him. He had taken a rapid count of the horsemen approaching and had decided the whites were too outnumbered to attempt a fight. Surely they would back away. He would have to give up the attack on the cabin, but at least the raiders should be able to move on with their horses.

To his surprise, the Texans mounted a charge. There had been nothing for Buffalo Caller's warriors to do but meet it and try to break it up. He was confident the white horsemen would disperse when they saw the superior force riding down upon them. But they did not. They kept coming.

Buffalo Caller wondered what manner of madmen he was dealing with. The Texans' failure to be intimidated left him rattled, unsure what he should do.

The young warriors made the decision for him. They would try to save the horses. Surely the inferior band of Texans would realize they were too outnumbered to take the horses back. Surely they would pull aside and let the warriors pass.

But it quickly became evident that the
teibos
had no such intention. Buffalo Caller had no choice but to lead another charge. It was poorly organized and quickly began disintegrating as the opposing bodies neared one another. He looked around desperately for his son Steals the Ponies. He could not see him in the confusion of running horses and shouting men.

Buffalo Caller found himself facing a single rider. He had fired his rifle in the first charge and had not had a chance to reload. He did not trust his aim with an arrow from the back of a running horse against another moving horseman. He chose to use the war club.

He was almost blinded by the flash of the rider's pistol. The bullet missed him, but the blazing powder set his face afire. He felt his club connect with the white man's shoulder so hard that it would have been jarred from his grasp but for the leather thong that bound it to his wrist. The rider fell from his horse and landed on his back.

Buffalo Caller quickly brought his horse around for another run, determined this time to crush the
teibo's
head. Blinking, trying to see through the lingering brightness of the flash, he raised the club, then stopped. He looked down in surprise and growing horror, for he saw what he had seen in his dream. The white man's hair was red.

Buffalo Caller burned all over. Instinct told him to smash this man quickly, for the red-hair was evil medicine. But his hand seemed paralyzed. He felt a struggle of opposing powers, his own against that of the red-haired Texan. He tried to bring down the club but could not move it.

He heard a shout and saw another white man bearing down upon him. As Buffalo Caller turned to meet the new threat, he felt a renewal of power. He swung the club back for momentum, then felt a terrible blow to his side even as he heard the shot fired. He once had been kicked by a mule, but that was nothing compared with the impact of the bullet. He almost fell from the horse. He managed to grasp a handful of mane, but he could not see to guide the animal. He could feel that it was still running, but he had no idea where it was going.

It did not seem to matter. A slow paralysis came over him. His hand loosed its grip on the mane. He knew the sensation of falling, of pain when he struck the ground. Then he was lying on his back, sunlight filtering through tree branches above and burning through the lids of his closed eyes. He felt himself drifting away as if floating in the river.

The last thing that came to him was a renewal of the vision. Once again he saw the man with the red hair. And once again the face was that of the boy he had taken for his own but had lost in the turmoil and fire of Plum Creek.

* * *

Rusty felt a terrible pain as a hand gripped the shoulder the club had struck. He cried out, and the hand jerked away. He recognized James Monahan's anxious voice before he was able to focus on the face.

"Are you shot?"

Rusty had trouble bringing out the words. "He hit me with his club. Feels like he might've busted my shoulder." He reached up to examine the source of pain. "He was fixin' to fetch me another lick when you rode up. Thanks. You saved my life."

"It ain't worth thankin' me for." James straightened up and looked around. "I'll go fetch your horse. Looks like our Indian got away, but he won't go far. I put a bullet in him."

While James rode out to catch Alamo, Tanner reined up and swung a long leg over the cantle of his saddle. He bent down to give Rusty a searching look. His anxiety faded, a smile creasing his face. "Fell off of your horse, did you?"

Rusty did not see the humor. "Got clubbed. If James Monahan hadn't come along, I'd have my brains scattered all over the grass."

"Wouldn't've been enough to make much of a mess. Come on, I'll help you up."

Rusty felt shaky on his feet, and Tanner held him until James brought the horse. Tanner boosted Rusty into the saddle. Rusty asked, "Where's everybody else? What went with the Indians?"

"Scattered to hell and gone," "Tanner replied. "Looks like we busted up their party. You know how it is with Indians. They'll go off in six directions and meet up later, somewhere they don't figure we can reach them."

James observed, "They've left their horse herd behind."

Rusty was grateful for that. "But they'll he back. They'll try again. Maybe not today, but sooner or later."

Tanner said, "That means me and you can hang on to our high-payin' job." He pointed his chin toward the York cabin. "Looks like the boys are startin' to gather over there. Guess we'd best go join them."

James looked toward the river. It was only fifty yards away. "Maybe they won't notice for a while that I'm not with you."

Rusty frowned. "You leavin'?"

"I promised to stay 'til the trouble was over. It is, so I'm gittin' while the gittin's good."

Tanner said, "They'll blame Rusty for you gettin' away."

"Tell them it happened while him and that Indian was havin' their setto. Wasn't nothin' he could do about it. Ain't much either of you can do now except shoot me in the back."

Tanner drew his pistol and studied it. "I ain't had time to reload. Don't reckon Rusty has either."

James smiled. "Then adios, Rusty. Take good care of my sister. See you when the war is over."

Rusty grimaced. "The war back east has got to end one of these days, but I'm afraid the one out here may take a lot longer. Don't let some Comanche raise your hair."

He watched James disappear into the timber, then shifted his attention to the York cabin. "Guess we'd better see what's goin' on."

Captain Whitfield stood with his hands on his hips as Rusty dismounted, his shoulder stiff. "I don't see your prisoner."

Rusty grimaced. "Neither do I, sir. Things got kind of mixed up out there for a little bit."

"Caleb Dawkins will be upset if he finds out you had him, then lost him again."

"Somehow, what Caleb Dawkins thinks doesn't mean a damn thing to me right now." Rusty rubbed his aching shoulder. He decided it was not broken, but it would probably turn black as a bucket of coal. "Anyway, he's got other troubles on his mind. And deserves them every one."

"There's no reason he has to know, unless somebody has the poor judgment to tell him. I don't know anybody in this company that short of good sense.

"Truth is, Captain, if it hadn't been for James Monahan, I'd be layin' out yonder with my head stove in. It's a lucky thing he was there."

Preacher Webb stood at the door. "Just luck, you think? Likely it was Providence that James was close by when you needed him."

Rusty shook the minister's hand. "I wouldn't be surprised."

"And it was the Lord brought you and the minutemen here in time. We were might near out of ammunition."

"I'm glad we got here, for your sake. As for Isaac York, I wouldn't care if the Indians plowed him under."

Webb stared critically at Rusty, then motioned him over to the side of the cabin away from the others. "It's time you know the truth. Tom and me, we tried for a long time to tell you we weren't sure Isaac shot your Daddy Mike. Now we know he didn't."

Rusty swallowed hard. "What do you mean, he didn't?"

"When word came about Fowler Gaskin's boys bein' killed, I went over to try and comfort the old man. He let the truth slip. Eph and Luke did it. They were afraid to sneak up close, so they mistook Mike for you. It was you they meant to kill."

"Me?"

"You'd just had a fight with them, and you whipped up on them pretty good."

Rusty leaned against the cabin wall. He felt that otherwise he might fall down. Remorse burned like a long drink of bad whiskey. "I came awful close once to killin' Isaac York."

"Hate is a heavy load to carry. Especially when it's for nothin'."

"Is Isaac inside the cabin?"

"He took an arrow. Shanty and Tom are doin' what they can for him."

Rusty dreaded going in. But it had to be done. He owed Isaac York for a wrong he was not sure he could ever set aright.

Blessing and Shanty leaned over York, stretched out on a cot, groaning. A bloody arrow lay on the dirt floor. Blessing was washing a chest wound with a whiskey-soaked cloth. Shanty was murmuring, "Don't you go and die on me, Mr. Isaac. You take a tight grip and hang on. You hear me, Mr. Isaac? I don't want to belong to somebody else." Shanty's voice broke.

Blessing said, "It's bad, but it missed the heart. He'll make it. Guess it sort of makes up for him shootin' those Indians on the reserve that time. When his time comes to die, it'll be the whiskey that kills him."

In a voice so weak as to be almost inaudible, York murmured, "Preacher, pray me through this. I swear I'll give up drinkin'."

Webb said, "The Lord expects a man to live up to his promises. Were I you, I wouldn't go makin' any I couldn't keep."

Rusty said, "Mr. York, I'm sorry."

York became aware of Rusty's presence. He struggled to find voice. "Boy, whatever troubles you've got with me, they'll have to wait."

"I've got no trouble with you. I'm sorry I ever did. I just found out what really happened to Daddy Mike."

The man's puzzled expression made Rusty realize York did not know. "I found out it was the Gaskin boys shot him."

York was slow in absorbing the information. It seemed too much to digest at one time in his weakened condition. "I had some differences with your daddy, but not nothin' I'd kill him for."

"Maybe someday I'll learn to be slow about makin' judgments. Forgive me, Mr. York?"

York began muttering incoherently as shock took hold. Shanty leaned over him again, grasping his hand. "You just take a strong grip, Mr. Isaac. I'm right here."

Webb and Tom Blessing walked out with Rusty. Blessing said, "Takes a man to admit he's wrong. Looks to me like you've grown up, Rusty."

"I reckon it was high time."

Captain Whitfield was assembling the company. Rusty shook the two men's hands.

Webb said, "You've taken a load off of Isaac York. The Lord is smilin' on you.

"He must be, because all of a sudden there's a load gone off of me, too. Come up to Belknap when you can, Preacher. There's folks up there who could sure stand some gospel-learnin'."

He mounted Alamo. Preacher Webb asked, "Anything you want me to tell the Monahans?"

Rusty shook his head. "Nope. I'll be goin' by and tellin' them myself." The rangers were riding away. Rusty spurred to catch up to them, thinking of what-all he wanted to say to Geneva and to the rest of the family.

His shoulder ached, but it was not enough to overcome the warm feeling that arose within.

He
had
a family now. He was no longer alone.

* * *

Buffalo Caller lay on damp ground. Looking up through a haze dense as smoke, he knew he was in the midst of timber along the bank of the river. He had fallen from his horse. His side burned like fire where the bullet had smashed his ribs. Carefully he pressed his hand against the wound. The blood flowed warm and much too freely. He realized his life was draining away. He did not want to die lying on his back. He wanted to push up, to meet death in a sitting position, but he lacked the strength.

He blinked, trying in vain to clear his blurred vision. He sensed that a horseman was moving toward him. One of the Texans, coming back to kill him, he thought. He felt no fear, for the
teibo
could do nothing more to him. He was dying anyway.

The voice that called softly was not that of a white man. "
Powva?
Father?"

Steals the Ponies had found him. The young warrior dropped to the ground and knelt by Buffalo Caller's side. He gave the wound a swift appraisal. "I am here to take care of you, Father."

Buffalo Caller struggled to find voice. "It is too late. Even if I could ride, my horse has run away and left me."

We lost all the horses, Father, except the ones we rode. There will be other times and other horses."

"For you, my son. Not for me. Our grandfathers are waiting for me."

Steals the Ponies choked off a cry. It was not becoming for a grown son to weep in the presence of his father.

It was a hard thing to die, knowing his last mission had been a failure. But Buffalo Caller could feel the darkness coming over him, the long darkness from which there would be no waking. "You will keep fighting,
Ner-too-ahr—
son. Take my bow and my shield. Every time you fight the Texans, I will be with you."

"I
will
fight them, Father. I will fight until they are gone or
I
am."

Buffalo Caller found strength to raise his hand, to touch his son's arm. "But beware the red-haired ranger. His medicine is stronger than mine. Stronger, perhaps, than yours."