[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (31 page)

"All that way afoot?"

James nodded. "Before the war lots of cattle were driven to Missouri and Illinois and down to New Orleans. I heard of a bunch that was walked all the way to New York City."

"That'd take time."

"Time we've got a-plenty of. Money we don't. You can't do much farmin' in the winter. You could be out puttin' your brand on unclaimed cattle same as me and Evan."

Rusty found the proposition interesting to contemplate. "It'd be somethin' to do."

James said, "In fact, I don't see no reason we couldn't throw our gathers into one good-sized bunch. By summer we'd be back from Missouri with our pockets jinglin' and the goose hangin' high. Who knows? I might even buy the Dawkins farm off of them Yankee tax collectors."

Rusty found himself warming to the idea, though he knew it was a long shot. "It's a far piece to Missouri. We'd better not be spendin' it 'til we get it in our pockets."

James grinned. "Half the fun is in thinkin' about what you're goin' to do with it. You can spend it a thousand times before you get it. When you have it, you can't spend it but once."

* * *

Scully kept looking over his shoulder into the darkness. "I tell you, I been hearin' somethin'."

"You hear your own cowardly heart beatin'," Pete declared. "Ain't nothin' behind us but a whippoorwill and an owl or two. We killed both of them nigger guards. Ain't nobody goin' to miss us 'til daylight."

"Then what are we pushin' these horses so hard for? I can feel mine givin' out under me already."

Pete said, "We'll get fresh ones from the old man. Then we'll head north up into the Nations. Won't nobody find us."

"There's lots of Indians up there. Some of them are apt to remember when we borrowed horses from them."

"Them Indians don't know one white man from another. We could tell them we're Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee. They wouldn't know the difference."

Scully argued, "As many times as we've run from Indians, I ain't none too keen about goin' up there amongst them."

"We'll stay where the peaceful ones are, the Cherokees and the Choctaws and such. We won't have no truck with the Comanches." Pete brightened as a new idea struck him. "Who knows? We might even set ourselves up as horse traders. Instead of borrowin' Indian horses out of the Nations and sellin' them in Texas, we could take Texas horses up into the Nations."

"Evenin' up the score?"

"Sure. We'd be the Indians' friends. And in return, they'd protect us if anybody came snoopin' around."

Scully was unconvinced. "Sounds good, but there's still many a mile between us and the Nations. How do you know your old man will give us anything? Last time, he was fixin' to shoot us both. If we'd stayed five more minutes, he would've."

"He's about done. You notice how he's shrunk up lately? Losin' Mama, losin' the war, has took the guts out of him. We won't
ask
for nothin'. We'll just take what we want. He can't do nothin' about it, the shape he's in."

"He ain't too weak to pull a trigger."

Pete shrugged. "But the will to do it ain't in him anymore."

Dawn was only a pink streak across the eastern sky when they rode into the Dawkins corrals. Pete's heart jumped as he heard a wooden gate strike against a post, and he brought up the army rifle he had taken from the black sergeant. He saw lantern light at the cow shed and realized one of the house servants was already doing the morning milking.

Pete's pulse slowed. "It's only old Jethro. Ought to be a couple of night horses in the pen yonder. Let's go get them."

Scully had spooked even worse than Pete. "You don't reckon he'd have a gun, do you?"

"Jethro wouldn't know which end the shot comes out of. Get ahold of yourself."

"I guess I'm nervous bein' this close to your old man. I can't help but remember how he was when we hanged them two Monahans. I never saw a man so cold and hard. He scared the hell out of me."

"Used to scare me too, but no more. Ain't nothin' left of him but a hollow husk. A good strong wind would blow him plumb away."

Two horses had stood in the corral overnight. The morning had become just light enough that Pete could see to rope them out, the smaller of the two for Scully, the strongest for himself.

Scully complained, "This one don't look like he'd go all the way to the Nations. Lucky if he gets across the county line."

"Stop belly-achin' and throw your saddle on him. If we come across a better one somewhere, we'll make a swap."

The lantern came bobbing along, its faint light dancing off the corral fence. A dark figure climbed up onto the second rail and held the lantern at arm's length.

"Who you-all? What you doin' there?"

"It's just me and Scully. We're tradin' horses."

"Marse Pete? Old Colonel ain't goin' to be pleased. You remember what he told you, that he'd shoot you if you was to ever come back."

"Well, I'm back just the same. You go on up to the house and roust him out. Tell him I want all the vittles me and Scully can pack behind our saddles. And any cash money he's got in the house. We'll be there soon as we finish saddlin' up."

Jethro climbed down, muttering. "Old Colonel, he sure ain't goin' to be pleased." He went trotting off toward the big house, splashing milk from his bucket.

Pete snickered. "Right there is proof enough that the Yankees are crazy. Settin' the slaves free! Jethro would starve to death like an old pet dog if he didn't have somebody to feed him and tell him what to do. When Papa dies, or when he loses this place, what's goin' to become of people like Jethro?"

"I'm more worried about what's goin' to become of me and you. The army's got a long memory."

"For them nigger soldiers? I'll bet none of them could even sign their name to the company roster. They'll be forgotten about before we get to the Nations."

Scully's nervousness had been getting under Pete's skin. Even after Pete had freed himself from his bonds and had broken the first guard's head with a shovel, Scully had been whimpering that they would never get away, that they were sure to be hanged for what he had done.

"We were goin' to hang anyway," Pete had argued. "They can't do it to us but once."

The second soldier had come awake just in time for Pete to give him the same treatment. Pete then had cut Scully loose, gathered the soldiers' rifles, and saddled the first two horses he could catch. Daylight had shown both to bear the U.S. brand.

"Now we
are
in trouble," Scully had complained. "We've stolen army horses."

The worst they can do is use a heavier rope."

Pete did not walk when he could ride. Though it was a short distance from the corrals to the big house, he mounted the fresh horse he had just taken. Scully followed along, leading his.

Caleb Dawkins met them at the door, standing in it to block their entry. He seemed smaller now than Pete had remembered him. He had lost weight, his clothes were hanging loose. His shoulders had a tired slump as if he carried a heavy yoke. "I told you the last time, Pete, you are no longer welcome in this house."

"Jethro tell you what I want?"

"He told me. I have nothing here for you. Go, before I summon all the hands and have you forcibly thrown off of this place."

"You'd better not summon anybody you wouldn't want to see dead." Pete flourished the army rifle. "You're standin' in my way, old man. I'm comin' in."

He gave his father a push. The colonel stepped back, almost losing his balance. Pete felt exhilarated at his sense of new power. For most of his life, his father had only to give him a fierce look and Pete would shrink away. Colonel did not even have to say anything.

The old man's already dead and doesn't know it, he thought.

"I told Jethro to sack us up some grub. Where's it at?"

"I told him to forget it. If you came empty-handed, you'll leave the same way.

Frustration boiled into anger. "Damn you, old man, you owe me somethin'. I'm your son."

"A fact that a heavy heart has brought me to regret."

Pete jerked a thumb toward the kitchen door. "Scully, go in yonder and see what you can find. Hurry up." He turned back to his father. "You keep tellin' me how poor you are, but I believe you've still got money stashed away. I want it."

"All the money I had went to the cause. You know that."

"I just know you
told
me that, but I think you lied. Now, where've you got it?"

"It's a sorry state you've come to, Pete, that you'd rob your own father. I'm only glad your mother isn't here to see how low you've let yourself sink. You're on the run again, aren't you?"

"It's none of your concern if I am. You've already disowned me, so what difference does it make?"

"What did you do, steal some more horses?"

"Killed some nigger soldiers, is all."

"So now you've moved up to higher crimes. You've added murder to the list."

"It ain't murder, killin' a nigger. The country's overrun with them as it is."

"But if they were soldiers the Federals won't rest 'til they have a noose around your neck."

"There was thousands of soldiers killed in the war. What's three more, especially with them bein' black?" Pete took a threatening stance. "Now, where's that money at?"

Tears glistened in the colonel's dull eyes. "You'll find a metal box in the bottom of my desk yonder."

Pete took three quick strides and flung open the double doors in the lower part of the rolltop desk. He grabbed the box so eagerly that it slipped from his grasp and fell heavily to the floor. He lifted it to the desktop and nervously fumbled with the latch. He flipped the box open and plunged his hands into stacks of neatly banded currency. He yelled exuberantly. Then the yell broke off. His face fell.

"Confederate money!" He ripped the bands off several bundles before he turned in disbelief. "Confederate, every damned bit of it. But where's the real money?"

"That's it. That's all there is."

Pete let a handful of currency float to the floor. "You fool! You damned old fool! You were richer than Croesus, and you let it go to hell for a crazy notion."

"Not crazy. You wouldn't call it crazy if we had won."

Pete could not contain his rage. He drove his fist into his father's square chin. Colonel Dawkins staggered back, grasping at a chair. He missed it and fell heavily to the floor.

He made no effort to get up. He lay there, rubbing his hand across his bleeding mouth, then looking at it. In a voice so weak Pete barely heard it, he said, "I remember when you were eight, and you took diphtheria. You would have died, but your mother and I would not allow it." Bitterly he shook his head. "Better you had died an innocent boy than to become what you are.

Pete shouted, "Hurry up, Scully. We got to be movin'."

Scully came out of the kitchen with a cloth sack. "Didn't find much. Some bacon, some cold bread. Not even any coffee."

"It'll do. Let's go."

His father still lay on the floor, gasping as if he could not catch breath enough to fill his lungs. Pete barely yielded him a glance as he rushed out the door. He ran toward his tied horse, which took fright and pulled back hard against the reins. Pete had difficulty mounting him. Once in the saddle, he slapped the horse across the shoulders with the long reins. "Settle down, damn you!" For a moment it looked as if the animal would pitch.

"You want to run, you jughead?" Pete turned northward and drummed his heels against the horse's ribs. He had no spurs. "Then damn you, run!" He lashed the animal's shoulders again.

Scully had trouble keeping up. He struggled to tie the sack of food with his saddle strings while his own mount jumped a ditch and galloped after Pete's. "For God's sake, Pete ..."

Pete let his horse run a mile or so before he slowed to an easier lope, then a long trot. Scully caught up, complaining as usual. "You're goin' to kill these horses."

"Never let a horse think he's boss or he'll take advantage of you every time."

"How far back do you reckon the army is?"

"Wasn't nobody left but that lieutenant, and he took my bullet in his shoulder."

"But there's them Monahans, especially that James. And Rusty Shannon. They'd kill us on sight, give them half a chance."

Pete growled, "I wish you'd shut up. You tryin' to turn me into a coward, too?" Scully's fears were beginning to get to him, though he hoped it did not show. Scully would probably go limp as a rag doll if he saw that Pete was weakening. What little strength the man had left, he was borrowing from Pete.

Pete kicked his horse back into a lope. "Since you're so damned scared, we'll pick up the pace."

After a time he began to sense his horse's stride becoming more labored. He knew he should slow down, but Scully's fear was infectious.

That next hill yonder, he thought. We'll stop and look back when we get to the top of it. If we don't see anybody, we'll rest the horses.

His horse never made it to the hill. He stepped in a badger hole and went down, slamming Pete to the ground. Pete arose on hands and knees, struggling for breath, coughing at the dust in his throat.

Scully was frightened. "You hurt, Pete?"

"I'm all right. Catch my horse. Don't let him get away."

"He ain't goin' noplace. He's crippled."

The animal limped heavily, favoring its right forefoot. Pete was dismayed. "Damned stupid horse!" He was angry enough to shoot the animal, but his rifle lay on the ground where the fall had spilled it. Legs wobbly, Pete walked over and picked up the weapon. He saw that the barrel was clogged with dirt. Firing it would be dangerous. It might explode in his hands.

Scully was long-faced. "What we goin' to do now? Your horse ain't fit to go on. If we try to ride this one double we'll break it down before we get to the river."

Pete quickly made up his mind. "We won't ride it double. Get down, Scully."

"Get down? What for?"

"Because I said so." He swung the rifle's muzzle toward his partner. "Get down."

Scully reluctantly complied. "What're you fixin' to do?"

Pete took the reins from Scully's hand and swung into the saddle. "I'm takin' your horse."