[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (28 page)

"I am, in a way. But I'm not anxious to see you leave us. I was hopin' maybe you'd change your mind if you stayed here long enough."

"My mind not change."

Getting rid of the splints meant a change of clothes. Webb said, "He can wear somethin' decent now instead of that long shirt."

Badger Boy was ill at ease in the white-man shirt and trousers Rusty gave him. A floppy old hat dropped down to his ears and had to be stuffed out with strips of newspaper to fit comfortably on his head. He kept his moccasins because they fit his feet better than anything the men could offer.

Webb observed him with reserved satisfaction. "Except for the braids, he looks like a farmboy from anyplace. Nobody'd take him for a Comanche."

"I
am
Comanche," Badger Boy declared. "Clothes no change." He turned to Rusty. "When we go?"

"Another week. Maybe two. We've got to know you can stand a long ride."

Badger Boy sensed that Rusty continued to hope he would change his mind and stay. But when the north wind blew at night he imagined he could hear the voices of his People, calling. Nothing was going to change his mind.

* * *

Three saddled horses and a pack mule stood waiting. Rusty shook hands with Shanty, then Tanner. "In case somethin' drastic comes up, Len, you know where I'll be."

Tanner smiled. "Tell them Monahan girls Len Tanner said howdy. And kiss them for me, if you've got the nerve."

The Monahan girls. Mention of them brought the image of Geneva, and the pain that went with it. "Kissin' the girls is more in your department."

Shanty was somber. "Be watchful, Andy, and take care of yourself."

Tanner gripped the boy's hand. "You ever get tired of that Indian life, come see me. There's lots more things I can teach you."

"Damn betcha."

Webb said dryly, "I think you may have taught him too much already."

Rusty was able to follow a well-defined wagon trail for better than half the day, but then he had to turn off of it when it shifted due westward. He angled across country, toward the northwest.

Webb rode alongside him, Andy trailing a little ways behind, Indian style. Webb said, "Years ago, the first time you ever rode with the volunteers, we followed Indian raiders along this same route."

Rusty nodded solemnly. "That's right. We camped for the night yonder where the trail crosses the creek. But we're not stoppin' there this time. I've got another place in mind for tonight's camp."

Webb's voice became anxious. "You sure you know what you're doin'?"

"I'm takin' a chance. He's been havin' trouble rememberin'. This may jog his memory."

"Some memories are best left buried."

"Not when you need them to tell you who you are."

Webb shook his head in doubt.

For a time Rusty feared darkness might catch them before they reached the place he was aiming for, but then he saw the line of small trees and knew he had reached the creek crossing he remembered with such terrible vividness.

Andy had sat slumped in the saddle, looking as if he might even be dozing. Now he sat up straight, looking around with serious interest. "This place. I think I been here."

He pointed to a tree that apparently had been bent out of shape as a sapling and had grown crookedly into something like a question mark. "That tree. I remember."

"One tree looks about like another."

"Not that one." Badger Boy's face became increasingly grave. "Bad place."

"Bad? How so?"

"I don't know. Feel bad spirits here. Damn bad."

Preacher Webb frowned. Tanner's teachings had left an indelible mark on the boy's speech.

Rusty said, "We'll camp here for the night."

The lad's eyes looked fearful. "Something happen here. Something bad."

"Do you remember it?"

Andy shook his head but kept looking around anxiously as if he saw or felt something the men could not.

Webb suggested, "Maybe we ought to move on a little farther."

Rusty said, "There's wood here, and water. Been others camped here before." He helped Andy down from the saddle and handed him a long stick whittled into a rude cane to aid him in walking now that he had left the crutches behind. The boy seemed reluctant to venture out.

He leaned on the cane and kept watching as if he expected something awesome to rush at him out of the trees.

Rusty and Webb took what they needed from the mule's pack. Webb built a small fire while Rusty led Badger Boy to a small pile of rocks beneath a tree. Rusty's skin went cold as he remembered. "I came this way once with Preacher and Tom Blessing and a bunch of others, trailin' a Comanche war party. They had taken a lot of horses. But worse than that, they had stolen a woman and a small boy."

He waited, watching for a reaction. He was not sure he saw one. He said, "They killed the woman here. This is where we found her, and where we buried her. We never found any sign of the boy."

Andy remained silent. Rusty was not sure he understood until the youngster asked, "That boy ... him me?"

"Yes."

"How come I no remember?"

"You were young. And maybe you tried hard not to remember."

Andy seated himself on the ground, favoring the weak leg. He sat staring at the unmarked grave. He said nothing. Rusty waited for him to react, to speak, but no words came.

Eventually Webb called, "Coffee's ready if you are."

Looking back over his shoulder, Rusty walked to the fire and poured coffee from a blackened can into a tin cup.

Webb asked, "He remember anything?"

"Can't tell. It's like he's in a trance or somethin'. Indians have got a way of sensin' things they can't see. He may have gotten that from them."

Rusty's cup was half empty when he heard something, a sort of low whine, then a wail. He turned quickly to see the boy bent over, face in his arms, his body trembling. Rusty dropped the cup and hurried to him.

Andy cried out in anguish. "Mama! Mama!" He wept bitterly.

Rusty knelt and put an arm around him. "It's all right, Andy. It was a long time ago."

Preacher Webb tried to squat down on the boy's other side, but his knees were too stiff. He remained standing.

Rusty said, "Seems like he finally remembered."

"A boy so young couldn't stand lookin' into hell. He put up a high wall to shut it out. Now you've made him see over that wall."

Later, Andy stared into the small blaze of the campfire. Rusty and Webb had finally prevailed on him to eat a small supper. "This place ... they stop here with us. They eat a horse. Then they take Mama ..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Many times she screams. I try to go to her, but they whip me. Long time ... no more screams. I cry, they whip me. I make myself not cry. They don't whip me no more."

Rusty said, "At least now you remember who you are."

"I am Andy Pickard. All the same I am Badger Boy. How can I be two people?"

Rusty had no answer.

Webb said, "I knew your mother, Andy. She was a good woman. Your daddy was a good man, too."

"Not same as uncle?"

"Not the same as your uncle."

"Good. Damn uncle. No like."

Before they left camp the next morning they stood beside the grave. Rains had caused some of the rocks to roll away, and Rusty had replaced them neatly.

Badger Boy was solemn. "My mother ... why my people do this to her? Why they kill her but keep me?"

Rusty shook his head. "They're different from us. There's a lot us white people will never understand."

"I am white, but I am Comanche also. Why I not understand?"

T
hey were a couple of hours short of the Monahan farm when Andy said, "Something moves, there." He pointed to the west.

Rusty could not see anything. "Where?"

Andy pointed again. "Somewhere there. I feel it."

"Feel it? You sure it's not your imagination?"

Then Rusty saw horsemen straggle from a ragged row of trees a few hundred yards away. He reined up. "He's right, Preacher. See them?"

Webb had his own reins drawn tight. "Not until just now." He glanced at Andy with wonder. "Son, you've sure got sharp eyes."

"Not see." He touched his hand to his chest. "Feel it here."

Rusty asked, "Indians?"

Webb frowned. "Can't be sure at the distance."

Andy said, "Not Indians. White."

"If it's holdup artists, we haven't got much worth stealin'."

Webb said, "We have three horses and a mule. For some, that would be enough."

Rusty studied the terrain. It was open in all directions out to the trees. "If they come at us, this is a good place as any to stand them off." He dismounted. "Come on, Andy, I'll help you down."

The boy seemed unperturbed. "We fight?"

"Not unless they bring a fight to us." Rusty checked his rifle. Webb stood behind his horse, resting his own rifle across the saddle.

The horsemen hesitated briefly, perhaps discussing the situation, then moved cautiously across the open prairie. Rusty counted five. As they closed the distance he could see three blue uniforms. He lowered his rifle. "Soldiers. One's hunched over like he's hurt."

Webb said, "Andy, you might ought to stick those braids under your hat. We didn't bring you this far to have the army take you away from us."

Two riders were in civilian clothes. They sat awkwardly, hands tied to their saddles. Two soldiers held rifles ready for action. The third straightened up with some difficulty. Rusty recognized the uniform of a lieutenant. He lowered his rifle and stepped forward.

"You-all come on in. We're peaceful."

The two enlisted men were black. One wore sergeant's stripes. The officer's dusty coat showed a dark bloodstain on the shoulder. A bulge indicated a heavy bandage beneath it. The lieutenant's face was drained to a pale clay color.

Both prisoners were heavily bearded. Rusty looked a second time before he recognized them. "Pete Dawkins!" The other man was Dawkins's running mate Scully.

The lieutenant glanced apprehensively toward the two enlisted men. He seemed reassured to see they had not relaxed their stance with the rifles. He asked Rusty, "You know these prisoners?" His cautious manner told Rusty it would be better to deny any acquaintance.

"I wish I could say I don't. It's been my bad luck to know them for several years."

The officer eased a bit, though the two troopers remained stiffened for a possible fight.

Rusty asked, "What've they been up to this time?"

Cagily the officer said, "I hope you have no interest in setting them free. My men would drop you in a moment."

"No need to worry about us. I arrested Pete myself once, when I was with the rangers. He was stealin' horses."

"Then he's still at the same trade. He's just not very good at it."

"Who'd he hit this time?"

"A good Union family just north of here. Horse people."

"By the name of Monahan?"

"That's right. The Monahan men fought them off, but this Dawkins wounded one."

"Which one? Do you know the name?"

"Evan Gifford. Are you acquainted with him?"

Rusty grimaced. "I know his wife. Good woman. They're good people, all of them. How bad was he hurt?"

"They said he was wounded worse in the war and got over that. He will recover from this."

Rusty knew his compassion should be for Evan Gifford, but most of it was for Geneva. He imagined how it must have shaken her to see her husband brought in shot, again. "Damn you, Pete, haven't you Dawkinses caused the Monahans grief enough?"

Sullen, Pete Dawkins looked past Rusty as if he could not see him. Scully's head was down, his shoulders pinched in an attitude of despair.

The lieutenant said, "We had some trouble capturing these two. They killed one of my troopers and put a bullet through my shoulder."

Rusty said, "You look like you could use some help. We'd be glad to be of service to you."

The officer's eyes were hopeful. "You say you're a ranger?"

"Used to be. They cut us loose when the war ended. I'm Rusty Shannon. This here's Preacher Webb. The boy's Andy Pickard."

"My father knew the rangers in the Mexican War. He said they would charge hell with half a bucket of water."

"They did, several times. Where are you headed with these two?"

"Back to the Monahan farm to get positive Identification."

"The Monahans'd gladly hang Pete for you ... by his toes, by his neck, any old way you want it done. And I'd be glad to help them."

"Any hanging will be up to a court."

The lieutenant seemed about to slip out of his saddle. He grabbed his horse's mane to steady himself.

Rusty stepped forward to catch him in case he fell. The two black soldiers instantly aimed their rifles at him. The sergeant warned, "Don't you touch Lieutenant Ames."

The lieutenant coughed. "It's all right, Bailey. He's trying to help."

"Yes sir," the sergeant said, but he did not shift the rifle's muzzle away from Rusty.

Rusty knew it would be wise not to make any more quick moves. "Lieutenant, you'd better get off of that horse and rest awhile. When you're up to it, we'll escort you to the Monahans'."

"I've come this far. I can go the rest of the way. We ask for no favors."

"We were headed there ourselves. You favor us by takin' Pete Dawkins away." He explained how Colonel Caleb Dawkins, Pete, and some hired help had lynched Lon and Billy Monahan early in the war for the family's pro-Union sentiments.

Ames glared at Pete. "A rebel hangman. He has that much more to answer for."

"You sure you're strong enough to keep ridin'?"

"I'm strong enough. Two Johnny Reb bullets didn't kill me at Chicamauga. I'll survive one from a bushwhacking horse thief."

The lieutenant pulled in beside Andy as Rusty climbed back onto Alamo. "I've forgotten what he said your name is, young fellow."

The youngster gave Rusty a querulous look. "Andy."

Rusty feared Andy's halting use of the language would give him away, but the boy said nothing more.

The sergeant poked his rifle in Pete's direction. "Move out, you backshooter."