[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (24 page)

"Figure on goin' out fightin', do you?" Rusty said, knowing it was unlikely the warrior understood him. Then, in surprise, "You're nothin' but a shirttail kid."

The Comanches trained them early, but this one appeared too young to be out on a raid. The boy's skin was lighter in color than most Comanches. Wide blue eyes tried to show defiance but betrayed mortal fear.

Rusty's spine tingled. "You're a white boy!"

He stepped down from Alamo. Again the boy jabbed at him with the knife, but Rusty remained out of reach. He waited until the arm was extended full length, then grabbed the wrist. Twisting hard, he took the knife from the lad's hand and broke off the arrow.

"Boy, who are you? And how come you ridin' with Comanches?"

The youngster shouted harshly, the words alien to Rusty.

Hoskins trudged through the dry grass, his legs moving heavily. Sweat rolled down his face. "You got you one, Shannon. How come you ain't killed him yet?"

"Look at him. He's no Comanche."

Hoskins leaned over for a close look. The boy struck at him with his fist. The farmer stepped back. "He's got a white skin sure enough, but underneath it he's pure Comanche."

Rusty tried again. "You got a name, boy?"

The lad made no sign that he understood.

A wisp of faint memory touched Rusty like the brush of a transient breeze. "Comanches stole me from my real folks a long time ago. Like as not, that's what happened to him."

"Maybe so, but raise a dog pup with wolves and you can never get the wolf out of him. Better if he was to die right now."

"But he won't, not unless a broken leg can kill him."

"They've turned him into a savage."

Sympathy welled up in Rusty, deep enough that pain came with it. "I could've been where he is if Mike Shannon and the preacher hadn't grabbed me."

"The way I heard it, the Comanches didn't keep you long enough to hurt you much. Looks like they had this young'un long enough to ruin him for life."

Rusty heard horses and looked up, hand tightening on his rifle until he recognized Preacher Webb and Tom Blessing. Blessing leaned partway- out of the saddle for a better view of the boy. "Looks like you've caught yourself a bear cub."

"Take a close look at him. He's white."

Preacher Webb dismounted heavily, fatigue pressing down on his thin shoulders. The boy stared up at him with frightened eyes that no longer tried to show fight. Plainly, he expected to be killed.

Rusty asked, "Remind you of anything?"

"Reminds me of you, a long time ago back at Plum Creek. But you were a lot younger than this." Webb knelt over the youngster. "Do you speak English, son?"

The boy did not reply.

Webb tried again. "Do you have a name? Do you remember your mother and father?"

The blue eyes flickered. Rusty thought the words might have registered, at least a little.

Webb pressed, "Your mother? Do you remember your mother?"

The boy's lips tried to form the word, though no sound came.

Webb looked up. "I believe he understands the word mother. Maybe he can remember more if we keep at it."

Tom Blessing dismounted, excitement rising in his face. "I think maybe I know who he is. Remember the time, Preacher—you were there too, Rusty—when we trailed after Comanches who had taken a woman and a boy? That was before the war started. We found the woman dead, but we never did find the boy."

It had been the first time Rusty had seen the results of murder. He remembered the shock, the stomach-turning sight of a woman butchered, her scalp taken.

Webb said, "I'd ministered to the family, even baptized their baby boy. Their name was Pickard. I even remember the name they gave their boy. Andrew. They called him Andy. Andy Pickard."

The boy's eyes widened at the name. His lips moved as he tried to form a word. He made a couple of efforts, then managed, "Andy. Andy." He drummed fingers against his chest. "Andy."

A chill ran all the way down to Rusty's boots. "Then he's the one we hunted for but never found."

Blessing said, "Looks like it. You were lucky we found you so quick. He wasn't as lucky."

"Maybe his luck is fixin' to change. Preacher, what can we do about that broken leg?"

"Set the bone if we can, and tie a splint on his leg so it stays set. It'll hurt him real bad for a minute."

Rusty nodded at Hoskins. "Me and you will hold him while Preacher sets that leg."

Hoskins was dubious. "He's liable to bite. A man could get hydrophoby."

Blessing said, "I'll hold him, me and Rusty. You see if you can find a broken tree limb that'll do for a temporary splint."

The boy cried out and struggled as if he thought they meant to kill him. Rusty and Blessing held him tightly.

Webb said, "Now." He jerked the leg. The boy convulsed, then went limp. "Fainted dead away. It's just as well. He won't be fightin' me while I brace up his leg."

The farmer found nothing suitable. Webb placed Rusty's rifle flat against the leg and bound it with strips of cotton cloth torn from a jacket he had carried behind the cantle of his saddle.

Blessing asked, "What'll we do with him?"

Rusty said, "If somebody'll go fetch a wagon, we'll take him to my place. Me and Shanty'll look after him."

Hoskins warned, "Like as not you'll wake up dead some mornin' with a knife between your ribs."

Rusty said, "I don't see how I can do anything else." He turned to the minister. "I've been where this boy is. I look at him, and I see me layin' here in his place. Do you understand, Preacher?"

"I do. But this boy is not you. He's been raised to fight. Like as not he's been raised to hate you and me and everybody white. He may never get past that."

"You're a preacher. No matter how bad a sinner may be, you give him a chance, don't you?"

"That's part of the callin'."

"I'm a long ways from bein' a preacher, but I've learned a lot from followin' you around. I've got to give him his chance, like the Shannons gave me."

* * *

Distant shots told Steals the Ponies that the horse guard had come under attack. To their disappointment, he and the warriors he had taken with him had managed to find only six more horses. The Texans seemed not to have many, and most of those were too well protected to take without higher cost than the raiders were willing to pay. He had begun to worry about the reception they would receive when they returned to the encampment with less booty than expected.

Now a darker worry burdened him. He had left his brother where he had thought he would be safest. It appeared his judgment had been terribly wrong. He felt a fear for Badger Boy that he had never felt for himself.

"Leave the horses," he shouted, and turned in the direction from which he had heard the shouts. Most of the other warriors objected. It seemed cowardly to abandon the few they had obtained. "Had you rather lose them all?" he responded with anger.

Several men stubbornly held to the stolen horses. Steals the Ponies led the rest toward the sound of the shots. He had left Badger Boy in the care of Tonkawa Killer, as fierce a fighter as he knew. Tonkawa Killer hated the boy, but surely he would live up to the responsibility Steals the Ponies had placed upon him.

Driving the horses, the warriors stayed in or near timber as much as they could. Steals the Ponies could only guess how much opposition the Texans had mounted against them. From the cover of trees he watched a considerable number of Texans moving westward, driving a dozen horses before them. That represented about half the ones the raiding party had left under guard. He assumed that Tonkawa Killer, Badger Boy, and the rest had gotten away with the others. He felt a little better, though much anxiety lingered.

A wagon appeared to carry someone covered by a blanket. A Texan, he thought, perhaps wounded or, more to be preferred, dead, as all Texans should be.

He reasoned that the horse guard must be somewhere to the north, more or less where he had left them. When the Texans had passed out of sight he signaled the men behind him to move on. He pushed his horse into an easy lope, well out in front of the others.

He hoped to find that Badger Boy had not only survived unscathed but had acquitted himself in a manner befitting a warrior. If so, the other men should no longer chastise him for his disobedience.

He neared a tree-lined creek. A horseman rode out from the timber at some distance upstream and signaled. Much as Steals the Ponies looked forward to seeing that his brother was all right, he dreaded facing up to the fact that they had only six horses to show for their foray, plus whatever number the guard had managed to keep. This would reflect badly on his leadership and perhaps make it more difficult for him to recruit warriors for future raids.

Riding down to where the horse guard waited in the bed of the creek, he knew by their hang-dog look that they were ashamed for having failed him. But he felt that he had failed himself. To redeem his standing he would have to do something spectacular the next time.

He did not see Badger Boy. His throat tightened.

"Where is my brother?"

Nobody answered. The men who had stood guard on the horses looked away from him, most staring at the ground.

Tonkawa Killer! Where is my brother?"

Tonkawa Killer sat up straight and defiant on his horse. "The last time I saw him, he was running away."

Angrily Steals the Ponies pushed his mount against Tonkawa Killer's, forcing the warrior to back away. "You lie! He would not run."

"I told you many times, he was never one of us. He is a Texan. Perhaps he ran to the Texans."

"He would not do that. Never would he do that." Steals the Ponies swept the other horse guards with eyes fierce as an eagle's. "Did anyone else see him? Did anyone see him run away?"

No one answered. Most looked off as if he were lashing them with a whip. He felt fire in his face. He
would
lash them if he had something more formidable than a quirt.

"Perhaps you let the Texans kill him, and you did nothing to help."

Tonkawa Killer remained defiant. "Go look for yourself if you do not believe us."

The rest of the warriors arrived with their six horses. Steals the Ponies chewed on his anger a minute. "Go on, the rest of you. See if you can keep these horses, at least. I am going to look for my brother."

Tonkawa Killer said, "Look for him in a Texan lodge, among his true brothers." His tone was charged with contempt.

Heart heavy, Steals the Ponies began backtracking the horse guard's line of retreat. He was aware of the danger that he might suddenly confront Texans doing the same thing in a reverse direction, but he had no choice. He must take that risk.

After a while he saw a horse grazing alone. Holding his breath until his lungs burned, he closed the distance quickly. He recognized the roan Badger Boy had been riding. The horse looked up, alert ears pointed forward.

Steals the Ponies grabbed the trailing rein, then circled the roan, looking for dried blood that might indicate his brother had been shot. He saw none. That raised his hopes a little. His anxious gaze scanned the countryside, searching for Badger Boy.

Shamans sometimes claimed they had heard animals talk, but Steals the Ponies never had. He wished the roan could talk to him now.

"Where is he? Where did you leave him?"

The roan tried to lower its head to graze again, but Steals the Ponies held the rein too closely. "You will lead me back to where you lost him."

He tried to pick up the roan's trail, but it was lost amid the tracks of so many others. He reasoned that all had come more or less the same way, so he followed the broader trail. He checked every brush motte, thinking a wounded Badger Boy might have dragged himself to the shade. He found nothing.

He came finally to a set of wagon tracks. Boot marks and crushed grass indicated that several men had moved around afoot. The wagon had circled and retreated in the same general direction by which it had come. He thought it probably was the one he had seen earlier, carrying some wounded Texan.

He had no interest in wounded Texans. The more of them, the better. Dead ones would please him most of all.

For a fleeting moment he considered the possibility that the Texans had found Badger Boy and carried him away. He dismissed the notion immediately. It was the way of the Texans to kill any Comanche where they found him and leave him lying where he fell, meat for the scavengers.

The sun touched fire to thin clouds stretched along the western horizon. Steals the Ponies realized darkness would be upon him soon. He urged his horse into a faster trot, tugging sternly at the rein by which he led the roan. Somewhere his brother lay injured, perhaps even dead. Steals the Ponies had to find him.

But he did not. He spent a sleepless night beside a small seep and at first light was up again, searching in ever-widening circles. For two full days he rode back and forth, looking for tracks, watching for Texans.

Not until late evening of the third day did he yield to the inevitable. Badger Boy was almost certainly dead. Otherwise Steals the Ponies would have found him by now.

It was painful to think of his brother's body being set upon by wolves or by the buzzards that seemed to await patiently the death of every living thing. But he did not know what more he could do. He felt he had searched every piece of ground where the warriors and the Texans had ridden.

Shoulders hunched, his head low, he turned northward. It was a long way to the Red River, and beyond it to where the encampment lay. He would think of Badger Boy every step of the way.

It was good that his father Buffalo Caller was not here to witness his failure. He would be ashamed, as Steals the Ponies was ashamed. Stronger even than the shame was grief for a brother lost.

R
usty knew the jolting of the wagon must cause the boy intense pain, and he imagined he could feel it himself. He turned in the seat. "Grit your teeth, Andy Pickard. We'll be home after a while."