[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (15 page)

Scully wiped sweat from his face onto his tattered sleeve. "Reckon we'll live to reach your daddy's farm?"

"We'll get there."

"If he's still down on us like the last time we seen him, we may wish we'd gone someplace else."

"I worked like a nigger on that farm when I was a boy. The old man owes me for that. And he owes us both for packin' us off to the army over nothin' more than a few broomtails we borried from him. I figure to collect, then move on west."

"Collect what? If he's like everybody else we've seen, he's got the seat hangin' out of his britches. Probably couldn't buy us a pint of whiskey if it was ten cents a gallon."

"I know better. Bad as he hated the Union, I know he buried a bucket of Yankee gold and silver under the woodpile back of the house. Seen him myself when he didn't think anybody was lookin'. That'll spend right handy when me and you get to California."

"You think he'll just stand there and let you take it? He's got the temper of a sore-footed badger. We was with him when he hanged them Monahans, remember? A meaner-eyed son of a bitch I never seen, even if he is your daddy. I think he might be just a little bit crazy."

Sometimes Pete wondered why he put up with Scully. His partner was always asking questions, always expressing doubts even when everything appeared clear as crystal. Someday, when he didn't need him anymore, Pete would ride away and leave him afoot to manage on his lonesome. Like as not, Scully would wind up in jail before the chickens went to roost.

Just at dusk they trudged into the edge of a small farming town. Pete saw no sign hearing its name, but the name did not matter. A town was a town. He observed a tired-looking woman bent over a washboard and tub. Behind her, wet clothes hung on a line, flapping in the evening breeze. He guessed she was a professional washerwoman. A regular housewife should have finished her family wash earlier in the day unless she had a terribly large family.

Pete said, "Late as it is, them clothes won't be dry enough to take in the house before dark. Ought to be somethin' there that'll fit us."

"They don't look like much."

"They're better than what we've got on. We'll circle back this way after a while."

"How far do you think we'd get, afoot like we are?"

"Maybe when we leave here we won't be afoot."

"Takin' other people's horses is what got us into the army in the first place."

"And it'll get us away from here. Stay close to me and maybe you'll learn somethin'."

"I learned a lot the last time."

From up the street Pete heard singing. He thought at first it might be from a saloon, and the thought made him thirsty. But he soon realized the music was not the kind that went with whiskey. Lamplight spilled from the open windows of a frame church. Several horses were tied on the street outside, along with a few buggies and wagons.

Scully quickly surmised what was going through Pete's mind. "Stealin' horses is bad enough, but from a church?"

Pete smiled. "Now, where would you find more cheerful givers than in a church house?"

Scully followed, as he always did. Pete made a hasty choice for himself and pointed to another for Scully. "That saddle may be big for you, but you'll grow into it when we start eatin' regular again." He tightened the cinch, for the owner had loosened it to let the horse breathe more easily during the services. He mounted and jerked his head. "Come on, we don't want to be hangin' around here when the sermon is over."

"
Hangin'?
That's apt to be the outcome if they catch us."

"Ain't nobody goin' to. Dark as it is, they won't have any idea whichaway we went. Let's go back and get us them clothes."

Pete was glad to find that the woman had gone into the house. Even with the help of distant lamplight, it was difficult to see the clothes and judge their size. To improve the odds, Pete picked a couple of shirts and two pairs of trousers. They were still damp. He laid them across the pommel in front of him. "Hurry up. Don't be so damned picky."

There would be time to change clothes when they were well away from town. "Let's be movin'," he said, "and put this town behind us before they take up collection down at the church house."

The Dawkins farm lay just ahead. Much as he might deny it, Pete had begun looking forward to seeing it again. He had been in his early teens when Old Colonel had built the big house. It was often an unhappy place, but home nevertheless. His father sometimes treated him as if he were a black slave in the fields. His protective mother, on the other hand, had tried to shelter him and ease his wounded pride when she thought the colonel had been too harsh. He learned early how to manipulate her. He was never able to manipulate his father.

Caleb Dawkins had been brought up to believe in supplementing the sermon with the lash. He bore scars from his own boyhood and visited their like upon his son. He believed in bending the twig in the direction he wanted the tree to grow. But Pete had thwarted him. He grew in his own direction.

The nearer they came to the house, the more nervous Scully became. Some of that nervousness was contagious, but Pete would not acknowledge it for a hundred dollars in Yankee silver.

Pete tried to ease Scully's fears. "Who knows? He may even kill the fatted calf."

"More likely he'll meet us with a shotgun. It near tore the heart out of him to admit what you done."

"What we done. You was mixed up in it as deep as I was."

"But it was your idea."

"We're stayin' just long enough to get us a fresh outfit and maybe some better horses. And to dig up that can of gold and silver from under the woodpile."

"He may have dug it up already."

"He's too tight. He'd let it lay there and rust before he'd spend it. I'm takin' it for all the work I done on this place and never got paid for."

"What if he puts up a fight?"

"He's an old man, and I'm tougher than when I went into the army. I can whip him."

"You didn't talk this brave the last time."

Pete gave Scully an angry look. Scully was getting too free with his mouth. One of these days he was liable to earn himself a good stomping. That would teach him to stay in his proper place. "I'll handle the old man, don't you worry yourself about that."

In truth, Pete had no idea what the reception would be or how he would react to it. He thought he would try being politely formal. That would please his mother and make her easy to handle. It might be unexpected enough to keep the old man off balance as well. If it did not work, military service had taught Pete a few things, like standing up for his rights so long as that stand did not put his life in jeopardy. He knew there was a time to be bold and a time to back away. He could always try boldness if being polite did not disarm Old Colonel.

One of the slaves came out from the barn and stared in surprise. "Marse Pete? Can that be you?"

"Sure as hell is, Jethro." Pete dismounted and held out the reins for the servant to take. It occurred to him that by order of the Union government Jethro was no longer a slave. It was possible no one had told him, certainly not the colonel. Pete could not imagine Jethro or any other slaves staying around here under the Dawkins thumb if they had an alternative. "Is the colonel up at the house?"

Jethro nodded solemnly. "He stays up there a right smart anymore, since old missus died."

The news struck Pete hard. The words came painfully and sounded like the croaking of a frog. "Mama's gone?"

"Taken to her bed last winter and never got up again."

Scully said, "Damn, Pete, but that's tough."

Pete turned and leaned against his horse, trying to get his emotions under control. Maybe the colonel had written him a letter but he had never received it. Or, just as likely, the stubborn old bastard hadn't even tried.

The first rush of grief passed, and anger took its place. Pete clenched his fist. If his suspicion was correct, he had found one more reason to hate his father.

He turned back to Jethro. "Ain't nothin' wrong with the colonel, I suppose?" He hoped there was.

"He's down in his mind, what with old missus dyin' and the war bein' lost. But he's a strong man. He'll do a lot better, seein' as you've come home."

Don't bet on it, Pete thought. More than likely he'll throw a conniption fit.

"Put our horses up for us, Jethro. We're goin' to the house." He walked away without looking back, knowing the servant would obey and Scully would follow. He held his gaze on the open front door, wondering if the colonel had seen him and would come to meet him. He halfway hoped for a cordial reception, though he knew it was unlikely.

He was right. He stepped through the door and stopped a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the near-dark interior. The drapes were drawn, but he could see the colonel seated in the parlor, his huge bearlike body completely filling his favorite chair. Holding a glass of whiskey, the colonel stared at him with eagle eyes that offered no sign of welcome. As always, his was a formidable presence. Pete had seen strong men shake when the colonel confronted them.

Despite his intention of taking a strong initiative, Pete felt his face warming, his heartbeat quickening.

Damn it to hell, he was still a little afraid of the old man. He hoped the colonel could not see it.

Pete walked up almost within touching distance, trying to muster voice to speak. Caleb Dawkins spoke first, in a tone like a pronouncement of doom. "You back legally, or did you just run away?" Dawkins's scowl matched his voice.

"The Confederacy is breakin' up. Wasn't no use stayin' around for the funeral."

"I'm surprised you didn't try to run away sooner and get yourself shot for desertion."

Pete had a sinking feeling. He had hoped his father might have softened a bit. Clearly, he was still the same bull-headed son of a bitch he had always been. "I didn't know about Mama. You ought to've written to me. I'd have come."

"If you hadn't been a horse thief, you'd have been here to start with." The colonel's gaze went to Scully for only a second, then back to Pete. "I see you're still runnin' with the same trash as before."

Scully took a step backward, toward the door. Pete summoned enough nerve to command, "Stand firm, Scully. We've got a right to be here." He surprised himself a little. Emboldened, he stepped to the small table beside the colonel's chair and picked up the bottle of whiskey from which Dawkins had filled his glass. Pete tipped it and took a long swallow. "You used to buy a better brand of bourbon."

Dawkins said, "How would you know? I never gave you any."

"I took it when you wasn't lookin'."

"Like you took my horses." Dawkins finished what was in his glass and set it down. "Where do you plan to go from here?" The implication was plain enough: He did not intend for Pete to remain.

That stiffened Pete's stubborn streak. "What makes you think I figure on goin' anywhere?"

"I don't intend to let you stay here."

"I'll stay if I decide I want to. Me and Scully both."

"I'll have the law on you."

Pete thought he sensed a weakness in the colonel's voice. It was time to play his trump card. "It's pretty soon goin' to be Yankee law, and I don't think you'll want it pokin' into what happened over at the Monahan farm. Me and Scully was there, remember?"

Colonel Dawkins tried to stare Pete down, but he was the first to pull his gaze away. He went to the whiskey bottle and refilled his glass. He drank most of it in one huge swallow. "We did the patriotic thing. Those Monahans were traitors."

"Not the way the Yankee law will see it. You sure won't want to stand in front of a Yankee judge and jury while me and Scully tell what happened."

"You can't testify against me without implicating yourselves."

"They got a word for it.
Coercion
, I think it is."

For the first time Pete could remember, he had his father pinned against the wall. He could see conflicting emotions in the old man's eyes: resentment, defiance, fear.

He declared, "Like I said, we're stayin' if we want to. The way I figure it, this farm is part mine. When you're gone, it'll all be mine."

Defiance won out, but not by a wide margin. The colonel's eyes crackled with anger. "Stay and be damned. But keep out of my sight."

"This farm ain't
that
big. You'll be seein' a lot of me. And every time you see me, remember the way you treated me when I was a boy and couldn't defend myself. I ain't a boy no more."

Dawkins met Pete's gaze, and this time he held it. "If I didn't know how good a woman your mother was, I'd wonder if you were truly my son."

"Take a hard look, because your face is a lot the same as mine. I'm yours, and I've decided I can be just as stubborn mean as you are. I worked and sweated like a field hand to make you wealthy, and now I'm claimin' my share." Pete jerked his head at Scully. "Come on. I'm takin' my old room back."

Later he had Jethro mustered three of the hands and led them to the woodpile behind the big house. "You-all throw all that wood over here," he said, pointing to an open piece of ground. When the wood had been moved, he dug the toe of his shoe into the soft earth. "Grab your shovels and start diggin'."

Scully stood by with hands on his hips. "You sure you remember just where the colonel buried that bucket of money?"

"I'll remember it to my dyin' day."

Scully motioned toward the back porch. Colonel Dawkins stood there, staring. "This could
be
your dyin' day. I do believe that old man'd shoot you, son or not."

"There was a time he would've, but somethin's been took out of him. Maybe it's losin' the war, or maybe it's losin' Mama, I don't know. He acts as mean as ever, but look in his eyes and you'll see he ain't the man he was."

"I looked in his eyes, and they still scared me."

The hole was four feet deep when a field hand's shovel struck a rock. He raised up, sweat rolling down his face. "Ain't nothin' more down here."

Pete's confidence began to waver. Scully said, "Maybe your memory ain't as good as you thought it was."

Pete reluctantly admitted, "Maybe I missed it by a foot or two. Dig the hole out wider, thisaway."