[Texas Rangers 04] - Ranger's Trail (25 page)

“
I’ll think about it. How’s Mrs. Blessing?”

“
Better every day, thanks to Alice.” Tom frowned, waiting. “Ain’t you goin’ to ask me about Alice?”

Rusty thought he probably should. “How’s Alice?”

“
She’s a good-hearted girl. Homesick, of course. And she’s still afraid you resent her because she’s alive and her sister’s not.”

At a conscious level Rusty had tried to put such feelings aside, but they still rose to the surface at unexpected times when he was not prepared to confront them. “I know it wasn’t her fault. Except for her bad judgment in marryin’ Corey Bascom.”

“
Speakin’ of Corey Bascom, …” Tom reached into his shirt pocket. “While I was at the post office gettin’ my mail I found you had a letter, too. It’s from Andy. He thinks he’s got a line on your man.”

The envelope had been opened. Tom had read the letter. Rusty did not mind. He had far too much privacy out here anyway, living by himself. He hurried to unfold the letter, running his finger along the lines as he read.

Tom said, “They sent Andy and Len to a frontier ranger company camped way out on the San Saba River. That’s where he heard about Corey Bascom.”

Rusty hurried ahead to the part of the letter that told about a kid who had ridden a short time with Bascom. His hands shook so that it was difficult to read the lines. “Reckon how many days it’ll take me to get to that camp?”

“
A bunch. It’s liable to be a cold trail anyway.”

“
No colder than others I’ve tried. At least we know Bascom has been there, or close by.” He turned his eyes to the west. “I’ve never been that far out yonderway.” He started walking toward the barn.

Tom rode along beside him. “Me and my boys will keep an eye on the place while you’re gone. Can’t guarantee to cut all the weeds down, though. If a man could get his crops to grow as good as his weeds …”

“
To hell with the weeds.”

“
What about that hoe you left layin’ out there?”

“
To hell with the hoe, too. I’ve got some country to cover.”

Together he and Tom sketched out a rough map. Tom said, “You’ve been to Austin, so you know the road that far. From there you’ll head west into the hills. I’m a little hazy about the towns, but you’ll pass through some German settlements like Friederichsburg. From what Andy says in the letter the camp is west of Fort Mason, close to a settlement called Menardville. Feller told me he saw ruins of an old Spanish mission there. Jim Bowie’s name was carved over the gate.”

“
I’ll ask directions as I go along,” Rusty said.

“
I wouldn’t be tellin’ everybody my business was I you. There’s some wild old boys out yonder. They may get hostile if they find out you’re after one of their own kind.”

“
I take pretty good care of myself.”

“
You haven’t always. I’ve seen a couple of your scars.” Tom thrust his hand forward. “Don’t worry about your farm. And don’t worry about Alice. Me and the missus never had a daughter before. It’s nice havin’ one for a while.”

Rusty packed a smokehouse ham and a slab of bacon as well as flour and salt and coffee. There had been a time he could usually sustain himself on wild game for days on end. But wherever settlers moved in, the game tended to thin out. He saddled the bay horse and tied his pack onto a fancy-stepping Spanish mule he had acquired at a trade day in town.

Tom warned, “I never trusted them little mules. They can kick so fast you can’t see it comin’. They’ll break your leg before you can spit.”

“
I’ll be careful.”

Tom watched as Rusty rode away. He hollered, “Anything you want me to tell Alice?”

“
Just don’t let any strangers see her.”

In his eagerness he rode far into the first night and had to search in the darkness for a grassy spot to stake the horse and mule and for wood to build a fire. He resolved not to do that again. The road was familiar as far as Austin. He wasted no time there reminiscing about last January’s confrontation over possession of the state capitol. He sought directions and nothing else.

He found the topography changed abruptly west of Austin. The road led into rocky cedar-covered hills and scattered live-oak mottes. The land was drier. He wondered at the feasibility of cultivating it. Settlers so far had restricted the plow to valley flats. A scattering of cattle, sheep, and Mexican goats made use of the hillsides, grazing the short grass, browsing whatever parts of the brushy plants were edible.

Looks like a hard place to make a living, he thought.

Yet the first settlement he encountered had a more prosperous look than he would have expected, given the land’s meager prospects. The buildings were mostly of native stone, the individual pieces carefully chiseled to fit closely together. The roofs were shingled with cypress, which some artisan had trimmed to just the proper dimensions.

His second night out of Austin he reached the German town Tom had told him about, Friederichsburg. The streets were wide and generous. Most of the signs were in words he did not know, though he could figure out some that bore a passing resemblance to English, such as “Bäckerei” and “Drogerie.” He found a tall wooden building with an odd steamboat-looking front. The sign proclaimed it the Nimitz Hotel.

He would not spend money on a hotel room, but he decided to treat himself to the luxury of a dining-room meal. The staff spoke English with an accent that reminded him of the way old Captain—now Judge—August Burmeister talked. After a pleasant supper of venison, gravy, and hot bread, he rode up the Hauptstrasse to look at the rest of the town. Evidently these people had wrung a living from the land despite its less than impressive appearance.

He tipped his hat to a middle-aged woman of generous proportions who was watering a flower bed from a metal bucket that had holes punched in its bottom. Her husband pulled weeds by hand from a vegetable garden beside the stone house. A young girl carried a bucket of milk up from a cow pen in back.

Rusty could see how they prospered against the odds. Everybody worked.

He received directions to the Fort Mason road and left at daylight. The little mule seemed to like Friederichsburg and resisted leaving it until Rusty applied the quirt across its hindquarters. It kicked at him and missed, then gave him a resentful look that said it would exact revenge sometime when he was not looking.

A friendly storekeeper had told him Fort Mason was forty miles away. He also hinted that trouble was brewing between some of the German settlers and a segment of the English-speaking citizens for no good reason that met the eye except that they came out of two different cultures. “Might be a good idea if you take roundance on that town,” he said.

Rusty had traveled forty miles and more in a single day when the occasion demanded it, but it was hard on the animals. He decided not to push them. Chances were that Bascom’s trail would be cold, as Tom had said. But if it wasn’t he would not want to take it up with a worn-out horse and mule.

He camped on the bank of the James River. A German family came along in a wagon, heading in the opposite direction. They said they had found the atmosphere uncomfortable in Mason. “It is for the children that we go,” the father explained, his words labored. “It is not good that they see men fight.”

Rusty was aware that during the Civil War many German settlers in the hill country had remained loyal to the Union. They had suffered severely for it. Whatever the current trouble was, he suspected it had its roots in the war years and the distrust created between neighbors, even within families.

These people were short of provisions. Rusty gave them most of his flour and coffee, knowing he could replenish his supply in Mason.

He reached the town toward mid-morning. Riding in, he noticed that people watched him with suspicion. It was much like the reception he had received in Austin some months ago when that place was threatened with violence over possession of the governor’s office.

The proprietor of the store where he chose to stop spoke with a German accent. He offered no pleasantries but simply sacked up some flour and coffee beans and laid them on the counter. His mistrust was palpable though his manner was civil. Rusty asked, “Where do I find the road to Menardville?”

The storekeeper seemed a little friendlier. “You do not stay here?”

“
Just passin’ through. Got business at a ranger camp over there.”

“
You are not here for the trouble?”

“
Whatever your troubles may be, they’re none of mine.”

Leaving the store, Rusty found three men standing in the dirt street, watching him. Their grim faces indicated that their intentions were not benign. Rusty tied his provisions on the little Spanish pack mule, then turned to face the men. “You-all got business with me?”

One appointed himself spokesman. He took a step forward. “We got business with any stranger that drifts into town. How come you to stop at that Dutchman’s store?”

“
It was the first one I saw.”

“
Around here these days a man has got to know which side of the fence he stands on. There’s them, and there’s us. Which are you?”

“
Neither. I’m a passin’ stranger, and I’m fixin’ to pass.” He swung into the saddle, feeling angry.

Damn it, he thought, I didn’t come all this way to get tangled up in somebody else’s fight.

Looking back, he saw that they had caught up horses and trailed behind him. He suspected they would follow him out of town, then challenge him or perhaps even waylay him. He decided to meet their challenge here and now. Reaching down, he brought up his rifle. He turned abruptly and faced them. “I can find my own way. I’m not lookin’ for any escort.”

The spokesman said, “Just because you talk good English don’t mean you’re all right. There’s some Americans around here sidin’ with the Dutchmen. I’m goin’ to see what you got on that pack mule and make sure you ain’t smugglin’ guns.”

Dismounting, the man walked up to the pack mule and reached for the rope that held the pack in place. The little mule whirled half around and kicked him on the leg. The impact sounded like a small-caliber gunshot. Grabbing his knee, the man gave a cry of pain and crumpled. The other two got down to see about him while he howled that his leg was broken.

Rusty spurred the bay into a fast trot toward the Menardville road. The little mule had to trot extra fast to keep up.

He could not remember exactly what he had paid for the animal, but he decided it had been cheap at the price.

He met a horseman wearing a badge and found him to be a deputy sheriff. The lawman asked, “What was the argument down yonder?”

“
No argument. Some feller got a little too close to a mule.”

He could tell that he had not fooled the deputy. The man said, “Stranger, ain’t you?”

“
First time I was ever here. Nice lookin’ town, but it’s got some testy citizens.”

“
Was I you, I wouldn’t linger. Them boys yonder belong to one side. They probably suspicion that you’ve come to throw in with the other.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or maybe that’s why you’re here.”

“
I’m just tryin’ to find my way to a ranger camp over on the San Saba.”

“
You a ranger?”

“
Used to be.”

“
You’re in luck. Been some rangers in town tryin’ to stop trouble. A couple of them are fixin’ to report back to camp. If you was to ride along with them, nobody’d bother you none.”

“
Just point me to where they’re at.”

“
This used to be a pretty good town. Will be again when we get rid of a few rotten apples.”

Rusty was pleased to find Jim and Johnny Morris preparing to leave Mason. He had a feeling the deputy did not fully trust him until he saw the welcome the brothers gave him, pumping his hand, slapping him about the shoulders.

The three men who had accosted him made no attempt to follow. He mentioned that to the Morris brothers.

Jim said, “You’re in West Texas. A lot of frisky old boys come here when they’ve wore out their welcome everywhere else. Mason’s not the only place that’s got a two-bit local feud goin’ on.”

Johnny put in, “If you think there’s some hard
hombres
here, you ought to see Junction City.”

“
Right now I’m just lookin’ for Andy.”

Jim said, “I hope you ain’t come to take him home. Andy’s took to rangerin’ like a duck takes to water.”

“
No, I felt that way myself once. I won’t try to get him to quit.”

Johnny asked, “Why don’t you join up with us? Captain’s still got some openin’s left, and you can see how bad the rangers are needed out here.”

“
I have my farm to worry about. And other things.”

“
We know about the other things. Len Tanner told us.”

That was no surprise. Len had never recognized a secret in his life. Rusty explained about Andy’s letter.

Jim said, “Yeah, that boy Scooter’s still in camp. Rougher than a corncob. Andy’s tryin’ to work the rough edges off of him, but the kid has got a coyote eye. I wouldn’t want him sneakin’ up behind me.”

Rusty could understand Andy’s sympathy for a boy like that. Andy had been in much the same position a few years earlier. “He thinks the boy might give me a lead on Corey Bascom, the man I’ve been lookin’ for.”

“
The captain’s already made inquiries about that bank robbery. Andy talked to them three horse thieves ’til he was blue in the face, but he didn’t find out much about Bascom. It’s been so long now that I’m afraid you won’t be able to pick up the trail.”

“
I’d like to talk to the boy, anyhow.”

“
Gettin’ him to talk to
you
will be the hard part. He can cuss like a muleskinner, but he don’t put out much information.”