[Texas Rangers 04] - Ranger's Trail

Praise for
Rangers Trail

"This is a chunk of American history as it really was—post-Civil War Texas—with something most Westerns don’t have—authentic, complex characters—women as well as men. It’s a book that tells us a lot about our country—and the intricacies of the human heart." —Thomas Fleming

"
Ranger’s Trail
is a grand, old-fashioned yarn of the West, with writing as clear and clean as starlight over the prairie and a spirit that shines like silver spurs. A joy to read, this is one tale of Texas that should appeal to readers from Florida to Alaska. Well done!" —Ralph Peters, author of

Twilight of Heroes
and
The War in 2020

"[Kelton] expands on his reputation with a thoughtful, realistic portrayal of the West in which carefully drawn characters—not gunplay—drives the action. If there’s an heir to the Louis L’ Amour legacy, it’s Kelton." —
Booklist

Praise for
Texas Rangers Series

"As always, Kelton gives his characters flesh, bone, and body heat .... If he isn’t ‘the best Western writer of all time,’ he’s awfully close." —
Booklist
on
The Buckskin Line

"A rousing tale of the Texas Rangers, early Texas history, and of a brave and thoughtful young Westerner." —
Publishers Weekly
on
The Buckskin Line

"Elmer Kelton’s Westerns are not filled with larger than life gunfighters who can shoot spurs off a cowboy’s boots at 100 yards. They are filled with the kind of characters that no doubt made up the West .... They are ordinary people with ordinary problems, but Kelton makes us care about them."

—
The Daily Oklahaman

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

RANGER’S TRAIL

Copyright © 2002 by Elmer Kelton

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

A Forge Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

www.tor.com

Forge° is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC,

ISBN: 0-765-34479-3

First edition: September 2002

First mass market edition: August 2003

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 l

Dedicated to Nat Sobel, agent, friend, and a good judge of a story

AUSTIN, TEXAS, JANUARY 1874

T
he election had gone smoothly except for certain extralegal shenanigans perpetrated by both sides. Those were a normal feature of Texas politics and came as no surprise. By contrast the aftermath was chaotic enough to try the patience of saints, if there had been any. Rusty Shannon had encountered few saints in reconstruction Texas.

He slow-trotted his dun horse westward along a rutted wagon road skirting the edge of the Colorado River and wished he were back home on the farm where he belonged. On one side of him rode Sheriff Tom Blessing, in his sixties but still blacksmith-strong, solid as a block of oak timber. On the other, Andy Pickard whistled in a country boy’s youthful awe and marveled at the town just ahead. His urban experience had been limited to a few small crossroads settlements.

Andy declared, “I had no idea Austin was this big. Must be three—maybe four—thousand people here. I never saw such a place in my life.”

No one knew exactly how long a life that had been. Andy had been orphaned before he was old enough to retain clear memories. Rusty’s best judgment was that he might be eighteen or nineteen, allowing some leeway on one side or the other. Strenuous outdoor labor and the excesses of Texas weather had given him a mature appearance beyond his years. He had a young man’s seasoned face but had not lost the questing eyes of a boy eager to ride over the hill and see the other side. Girls seemed to consider him handsome. Andy seemed to have no objection to their thinking so.

Rusty turned up his frayed old coat collar against a cold wind coming off of the river. He had been wearing that coat for more than ten years, always intending to buy a new one someday when he felt he had a few dollars to spare but always “making do” for one more winter. He said, “San Antonio’s bigger. I was there once.”

His face, browned and chiseled with premature lines, was that of a man forty or more. Actually he was in his mid-thirties, but most had been hard years spent in sun and wind, riding with frontier rangers or walking behind mules and a plow. He said, “Got no use for San Antonio, though. It’s overrun with gamblers and whiskey peddlers and pickpockets.”

Tom Blessing declared, “Austin’s worse. It’s overrun with lawyers.”

Andy had seen little of gamblers, whiskey peddlers, pickpockets or lawyers, but he was itching to start. He told Rusty, “You always say I need more learnin’. I’ll bet I could learn a lot here.”

“
Mostly stuff you oughtn’t to know.”

Andy was well schooled in the ways of nature, but Rusty had worried about his limited book education. Andy had caught a little here and a little there as country teachers came, stayed awhile, then drifted on. Rusty, in his time, had had the advantage of coaching by a foster mother. There had been no woman to help teach Andy. At least he could read a newspaper, and he had an aptitude with figures. He was not easily cheated, nor was he a forgiving victim. Most who tried once never cared to do it a second time.

Andy said, “I doubt I’d get bored in a place like this. Bet there’s somethin’ goin’ on all the time.”

In Rusty’s view, that was the trouble. His idea of a perfect day was a quiet one. He had finally begun having a lot of those, thanks to the farm. “Most of it you wouldn’t want any part of. Country folks couldn’t abide the crowdin’. You soon get tired of people trompin’ on your toes all the time.”

He was here against his will and better judgment. He had planned a journey north toward old Fort Belknap to visit the Monahan family and to bring Josie Monahan back with him as his wife. But Tom had asked him to make this trip, and it was against Rusty’s nature to refuse a good friend. Tom had ridden often with Daddy Mike Shannon in old times when there was Indian trouble. He had introduced Rusty to the rangers at a crisis point when Rusty had badly needed somewhere to go. Rusty often said he would follow Tom into hell with a bucket of water. He had, once or twice. Austin might not be hell, but Rusty did not consider it heaven, either.

He wished he had not given in to Andy’s plea that he be allowed to come along. He dreaded the temptations this town might present to someone no longer a boy but not quite yet a man. Rusty had taken on the responsibility of a foster brother after Andy’s nearest known relative, an uncle, had rejected him. At times, like now, it had been an uneasy burden to carry.

He surveyed the town with apprehension. “Tom, reckon how we’ll find your friend amongst all those people?”

“
Maybe we’ll get lucky and stumble into him. Otherwise, he’s likely puttin’ up at a wagon yard. We’ll ask around.”

Tom had been a county sheriff before reconstruction authorities threw him out of office for having served the Texas Confederate government. The recent election had restored his badge after the former Confederates finally regained their right to vote. Another sheriff, a friend of his, had sent word that he was badly needed in Austin. He had not explained his reasons. He had just said to hurry and to bring help. Tom had immediately called on Rusty, respecting his law enforcement experience before war’s end had caused the ranger companies to disintegrate.

Andy had jumped at a chance to quit the farm a while and see the city. To Rusty he had argued, “You’re liable to need somebody to watch your back. You made some enemies while you were a ranger.”

Rusty suspected Andy’s motivation had less to do with protectiveness than with an urge to see something new and enjoy some excitement.

Because it was the dead of winter, Rusty and Andy had little farmwork that could not be postponed. Last year’s crop was long since harvested, and this year’s planting had to await warm ground. It would have been a good time for Rusty to get his red hair trimmed, then take a several-days’ ride up to the Monahan place and ask Josie a question he had postponed much too long. Instead, he found himself approaching Austin and wondering why.

During ranger service that often took him far from home, Rusty had remained at heart a farmer with a strong tie to land he had known since boyhood. Andy empathized but had never been that dedicated to the soil. A tumultuous boyhood had given him a restless spirit. He welcomed any excuse to saddle Long Red and travel over new ground, to cross rivers he had not previously known.

“
It’s the Indian in him,” Rusty had heard people say. “You never saw an Indian stay in one place long unless he was dead.”

Andy was not Indian, at least by blood, but when he was a small boy the Comanches had taken him. They had held him through several of his vital formative years. Rusty had found him injured and helpless and returned him to the white man’s world. But Andy had never given up all of his Indian ways.

Rusty hoped youthful curiosity would be satisfied quickly. He doubted that Andy would remain contented for long in a city like Austin any more than he was likely to be content spending all his life on the farm.

A squad of black soldiers drew Rusty’s attention. He and Andy and Tom had drawn theirs as well. He murmured, “They’re studyin’ us like we might be outlaws.”

Tom muttered in a deep voice, “They’re lookin’ at our guns. They’re always afraid some old rebel may take a notion to declare war again.” A few had, from time to time.

Rusty half expected the soldiers to stop them, but they simply watched in stone-faced silence as the three riders passed by and turned into a long street, which a sign on the corner said was Congress. At the head of it, well to the north, stood an imposing structure larger than any other Rusty could see.

Andy’s eyes were wide. “Is that the capitol? The place where they make all the laws?”

Tom said, “That’s the place. Fixin’ to be a lot of different faces there now that we’ve elected a new governor. Be a lot of carpetbaggers huntin’ new country.”

Rusty had mixed feelings about the outsiders who had crowded into Texas after the war, hungry for opportunity. On the positive side they had brought money to a state drained dry after four years of debilitating conflict. On the negative side some had brought a bottomless hunger for anything they could grab and went to any lengths of stealth or violence necessary to satisfy it.