[Texas Rangers 04] - Ranger's Trail (19 page)

“
Scallywags and scoundrels. Most folks didn’t see it as a crime. Shootin’ state police was looked on as a public improvement.”

“
Well, if he leaves me alone I’ll leave him alone.”

“
I don’t suppose the captain said what time they serve supper around here?”

“
I didn’t ask. Probably couldn’t eat anything now.” The thought of Farley Brackett being here had already begun to work on Andy’s stomach.

He and Brackett saw each other at about the same time. Brackett and another ranger had the horses scattered loosely, giving them room to graze. Brackett rode over to meet him. His attention seemed more on the sorrel than on Andy.

“
Howdy, Indian,” he said. “You been takin’ good care of my horse?”

Andy could think of no suitable answer, so he offered none. Once, under close pursuit by Union soldiers and state police, Brackett left his own tired horse and took one belonging to Rusty. In return, Brackett’s father had given Rusty this sorrel, which Rusty turned over to Andy.

Andy demanded, “With your record, why did the rangers ever take you in?”

“
They decided that anybody who had killed two carpet-bag state policemen must be all right.”

A long scar ran down one side of Brackett’s face, result of a wartime saber cut. Deeper internal scars had never healed. Andy had been a reluctant witness when state police cut down Jeremiah Brackett in his own home one dark night, mistaking the father for the son. He could sympathize with Farley’s bitterness, but he could not excuse the man’s unreasoning violence, or his coveting the sorrel horse.

Brackett’s gaze was hard. Andy tried to match it. Brackett said, “I’m surprised the captain accepted you. Did you tell him about your Comanche upbringin’?”

“
I did. It’s no secret.”

“
Did you tell him that the first time we get into a scrap with the Comanches you’re liable to run off and join them against us?”

“
I promised him I’d do my duty. He took me at my word.”

“
The captain doesn’t know you, but I do. If the day comes and you even act like you’re fixin’ to join your butcherin’ brothers, I’ll shoot you myself.”

“
Me and you won’t get along. That’s plain to see. Maybe one of us needs to ask for a transfer to a different company.”

“
I was here first. You goin’ to turn that horse loose, or not?”

“
That’s what I came out here for. He’d better still be here in the mornin’.” Andy slid from Long Red’s back and pulled the bridle down over the ears, then slipped the bits from the horse’s mouth. The sorrel hesitated just a moment before turning and joining the other horses. Andy suspected he would not get along with most of them. Long Red tried to dominate whatever company he was in. He would make a friend or two and buffalo the rest of the horses into staying beyond biting and kicking distance.

Andy gave Brackett a final glance but knew nothing more to say. Brackett would be a thorn in his side so long as both of them remained with this company. Andy resolved that he could be a thorn, too.

We’ll see which of us hollers
quit
first, he thought.

He walked the three or four hundred yards back to camp. Tanner sat on a crude bench made of branches tied with rawhide strips. He was cleaning his rifle. “I didn’t hear no shootin’.”

“
I didn’t do any. But I might if he ever crowds me too hard.”

Tanner used a ramrod to push a cloth patch down the rifle barrel. “Maybe it wasn’t such a smart idee, me bringin’ you along to join the rangers. It’s too late to back out, but maybe if I told the captain you lied about your age, …”

“
I didn’t. I told him I don’t know just how old I am. So maybe I’m guessin’ a little on the high side. That’s not the same as lyin’.”

“
Crowds the hell out of it, though.” Tanner shrugged. “Always try to stay where I’ll be between you and Farley Brackett. If it looks like trouble is fixin’ to break out, I’ll have a chance to step in.”

Andy disliked the notion that he might not be able to take care of himself. “The man who tries to break up a fight sometimes gets hit from both sides.”

“
I dodge pretty good.”

Andy did not doubt that Tanner would come to his defense no matter the cost. He would not want Tanner hurt on his account. “I’ll try to keep my distance from him.”

“
I ain’t the only friend you’ve got in camp. The Morris boys are in this company. Jim and Johnny are out on a scout.”

“
Scoutin’ for what?”

“
Indian sign, horse thieves, robbers, whatever there is. We’re west of most settlements here. Good country for them bunch quitters who work in the moonlight so folks don’t see what they’re up to.”

It had taken Andy and Tanner the better part of a week to ride here from the farm, taking their time. They had seen few people the last couple of days. Andy could remember the Comanches bringing their families down from the plains into these limestone, cedar, and live-oak hills to hunt. After white settlement began in earnest they came mainly to raid.

Tanner laid the rifle across his lap and glanced back over his shoulder. “They say there’s good fishin’ in the San Saba. Catfish so thick they’ll crawl out onto the bank to nip at your bait.”

Living with the Indians, Andy had spent most of his time in a high, dry country where fish were not plentiful. With Rusty down on the Colorado he had learned to throw a line in the river periodically to vary the menu from venison, pork, and beef. The catching had been all right, but he had not liked the cleaning. It seemed a lot of work for a little bit of eating.

The black cook walked out from the mess tent and struck an iron rod against a dangling piece of wagon tire, signaling time for supper. He gave a wordless holler as if he were calling hogs.

Tanner said, “Let’s go see if the boys was lyin’ about how good that cook is.”

The rangers who lined up were all strangers to Andy, though Tanner knew a few of them by name. No one remained a stranger to Tanner for long. They were a mixed group, mostly young. He saw none who seemed to be nearing middle age. Two or three looked as if they did not have to shave often. That made Andy feel a little less concerned about his youth.

“
Fellers,” Tanner said, “I want you to meet my compadre, Andy Pickard. Weaned on buffalo milk, brought up by wolves, ripped the hide off of a live grizzly with his bare hands and made himself a bearskin coat. He’d be wearin’ it today if the weather wasn’t so warm.”

Embarrassed, Andy could only stand quietly and look innocent. Sergeant Holloway grinned. “Was that a full-grown grizzly, or was it only half-grown, like that story?”

Andy saw that the rangers were going along with the joke. That eased his self-consciousness. He said, “It wasn’t near as tall as Len’s yarn. Next time he tells it it’ll be two bears.”

The grinning sergeant clapped a hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Grab you a plate. You never want to miss a chance to eat. There’ll be days when you won’t get to.” He pushed Andy ahead of himself in the line.

Andy decided he need not worry about being accepted. He warmed to the friendliness in the faces around him. He said, “I want to do a good job. Any time you-all see a way I can do better, tell me.”

“
You can bet on that. This outfit ain’t up to strength, so every man has got to pull extra weight to make up the difference.” Holloway paused, thinking. “Seems to me I remember some Pickards that used to farm down in the lower country, around Gonzales seems like. Any kin?”

Andy hesitated. “Might be. The only kin I ever met was an uncle. We didn’t like each other much.”

He did not want to disclose that the uncle had come to see him when he was recuperating from the broken leg that had caused him to fall back into Texan hands. The uncle had rejected him on the grounds that Andy’s long exposure to Indian ways had made him unfit for life among white people. Andy had resisted any further attempts to be brought into contact with his blood family. He regarded his real family as a band of Comanches and Rusty Shannon. He also felt an emotional kinship with the Monahans, more than he could ever have with any Pickards who might condescend to accept him.

Holloway said, “You keep an eye on the captain. Watch what he does and learn from it. Sometimes he’ll tell you what to do. Other times he’ll let you think for yourself.”

“
Sounds a lot like Rusty Shannon.”

“
I wish we had Rusty in this outfit. Why didn’t you bring him with you?”

“
I wish I had.” Rusty would be better off in this company than torturing his soul with grief and hatred and hunting for a man who by now might be a thousand miles away. “Right now he’s got his own snakes to kill.”

After supper Andy heard somebody tuning up a musical instrument. He was a little surprised to find Sergeant Holloway with a fiddle in his hand, adjusting the strings to conform with a banjo held by a young ranger. Holloway had not struck him as a lover of music. Soon the two were playing. Most of the other rangers gathered to listen. Even the captain emerged from his tent and sat on a canvas stool.

Andy found the music pleasant. He tapped his feet to the rhythm.

Farley Brackett ruined his good mood. He said, “I’d’ve thought a rawhide drum was more to your likin’.”

Andy got up and walked to his tent.

R
usty had never been to Fort Worth before. About the nearest place he had visited had been Jacksboro during his ranger days. He knew that the town had begun with a military post on the Trinity River before the war. It had grown as farming and ranching spread westward and northward toward the Cross Timbers country and the Red River. In recent times it had become an important stopping point for cattle drives coming up from the southern part of the state on their way to the new railheads in Kansas. It was a resupply center for cattle outfits and freighters, for military units on their way west. There was even talk that a railroad would be coming in soon to lessen the need for trailing herds farther north.

Fort Worth had gained a reputation as a wide-open town where a man could do just about anything he was big enough to get away with. If a little short in stature he could make up the deficit by carrying one of Mr. Colt’s inventions on his hip or in his boot top.

This was one of several trips Rusty had made on the basis of tips that Corey Bascom had been seen in one place or another. It was said he had been observed playing poker in Fort Worth’s red-light district, beginning to be known as Hell’s Half Acre. It was a name common to such districts in many frontier towns. Though previous searches had turned up empty, Rusty started each new one with strong hope. Now hope was about all he had left. The long ride had sapped his energy. Only the image of Corey Bascom kept him in the saddle mile after weary mile.

Each failure diminished his strength but increased his determination. To quit would mean that all his effort had been wasted. He had invested too much of himself in the search to give it up.

He rode through the thinly populated outskirts to a chorus of barking dogs and found a wagon yard a short distance from the courthouse. A young man of about Andy’s age met him at the barn’s open door. “Put up your horse, mister?”

“
I’d be much obliged. And I’ll spread my bedroll here tonight, too, if that’s all right.” He did not want to squander money on a hotel room.

“
Sure. May not get a lot of sleep, though. There’s two big cow outfits hit town today with herds on the way to the Indian nations. Apt to be a lot of whoopin’ and hollerin’.”

Rusty shrugged. “I’ll just have to put up with it. Town looks a little quiet right now though.”

“
It’s too early in the day. You lookin’ for excitement?”

“
Mainly lookin’ for where the excitement takes place.” If Corey was here, he would most likely be found where the action was.

“
Wait ’til night. You’ll hear it. All you have to do is follow the noise. Or follow a bunch of cowboys. They’ll lead you to it.”

This would be the drovers’ last chance for relaxation and recreation before they hit the Red River and Indian territory. Leaving here they faced a month and more of toil and monotony on the long, dusty trail before they reached the railroad. It stood to reason they would want to let off some pent-up steam and have something to talk about on the tiresome miles ahead of them.

The hostler directed Rusty to a barbershop where he could bathe and have his red hair trimmed. He found a washerwoman to scrub the dirt and sweat out of the clothes he had worn all the way up here. Then he set out walking the dirt streets, locating the saloons and gambling houses where Corey might be. Those he entered appeared to have little business as yet.

A gambler playing solitaire looked up hopefully as Rusty entered. “Interested in a little game, friend?”