My Heart Will Find Yours (30 page)

****

Royce strode from his office buckling on his gun belt as he walked. “Pete, I’m headed down to where Tehuacana Creek meets the Brazos. Heard that’s where the two Meade brothers are holed up with those cattle they stole from over in Navarro County.” He stuffed extra shotgun shells and cartridges for his Colt and Winchester in a saddlebag and headed for the door.

Pete stood. “You ain’t going by yourself, are you?” He rushed around the desk. “Let me get Jason to come in early, and I’ll go with you.”

Royce turned back. “No need for that. Don’t expect those two to be much trouble. They’re not smart enough to try to escape and not quite dumb enough to fire on me.”

“You ought not to be going out by yourself at a time like this.”

At his words, Royce studied his deputy, discomfort evident by the frown on his face. “What are you saying, Pete? Do you think I’m incapable of doing my job?” He could feel the heat rising on his neck and struggled to tamp down his anger.

Pete choked out the words. “Ah, hell, Boss. You’re still grievin’ and don’t need to be puttin’ yourself in danger.”

Royce slammed his hat down on his head. “I’ll be fine, Pete. If I’m not back in two days, send someone out looking for me.” His expression brooked no argument.

“Yes, sir, Marshal.”

He stomped out of the office slamming the door behind him. The men had been coddling him for a month now. Enough was enough. He had to get on with life, and if they didn’t think he could do his job, they damn well better see about getting him replaced.

He picked up food and supplies at the store then set out southeast of town. The heat of summer was over, yet the air wasn’t crisp like fall in other parts of the world. The leaves were red and golden, but temperatures still rose to the eighties during the day. He urged Samson into a trot and let him run for a few minutes. The animal’s powerful muscles bunched beneath him, and they flew over the ground covering the short distance to where he turned off the road for the banks of the Brazos.

Big boulders, rock cliffs, as well as an abundance of scrub brush and trees surrounded Tehuacana Creek. It was used years ago by the Waco, pronounced Wă-co, Indians, a band of the Wichita tribe, as a watering hole for their ponies, and was the perfect place to hide cattle. Herd them against a cliff, string rope across the front, and you had an ideal makeshift corral that kept the animals inside.

Several miles from the creek, he left the bank of the Brazos and swung around to approach from the opposite direction. The wind blew from the south, and he could smell wood smoke and manure along with frying fish. The occasional sound of voices carried on the wind. It didn’t appear they were expecting him.

Royce dismounted and let Samson’s reins trail in the dust. As he unsheathed his rifle, he whispered in the horse’s ear. “Stay here, boy. Come if I call.”

Bent over low to the ground, he crept through the brush to get a closer look. They’d set up camp in a small ravine, probably a ten-foot-drop from where he hid. Sure enough, there was the makeshift corral and ten or twelve head of cattle. Joe Bob and Billy Bob Meade sat around the campfire. Joe Bob turned fish in a skillet while his brother drank from a whiskey bottle.

Royce stood and brought his rifle to his shoulder. “Hey, boys,” he hollered. They jumped and scrambled for the guns leaned against a rock. Royce opened fire and knocked their rifles to the ground, busting the wooden stock of one. “Stop right there. It’s Marshal Royce Dyson. Don’t make me put a bullet in one of you.”

Both froze and threw their hands in the air. “Don’t shoot, Royce, we’ll go peaceable like.”

“Glad to hear it. Now—” A shot rang out and his left shoulder blade burst with searing pain.
Someone shot me in the back
was his last coherent thought as he pitched forward.

He woke and tried to open his eyes, but quickly shut them against the glare and painful throb. He hurt, oh God, his shoulder was on fire...and his head... Damnation! Someone had shot him in the back. He remembered the force of the bullet and being propelled down the incline. Taking a deep breath to still the nausea, he made to reach his pistol to discover his hands were bound in front of him.

Voices sounded close by, and he cracked his eyes, trying to see in their direction. Squinting against the bright light, he made out the two Meade brothers with a gangly kid backed up against a tree. He was probably eighteen but looked more like fifteen.

“Look what you done, you stupid pissant. You know what they do to men who shoot marshals in this state? They hang ‘um, that’s what.” He heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh. “Don’t think we’ll share the blame, either. You done this on your own.”

“How’s I supposed to know he was the law, Joe Bob? He was snooping around our business. What else could I ‘av done?”

“Tell him to drop the gun, you idiot. Get a rope, Billy.”

Royce tried to roll to his side to see what they were doing. A scream of pain burst from his mouth and everything went black. When he woke again, the Meade brothers were bending over him. They’d removed his bedroll from Samson, and he lay face down on it. His shirt had been ripped away, and Joe Bob held the half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Bullet went all the way through. We cleaned it as best we could. Hate to do this, but maybe the alcohol will keep the wound from turning putrid ‘til your brothers get here.” He started pouring, and Royce blessed the darkness that overtook him again.

Throughout the night, water was forced between his lips. He’d been rolled to his back propped against his saddle. Samson whinnied, and Royce felt his nibbles as the horse tried to rouse him. Around dawn, Joe Bob squatted and cut his bonds. “I’m mighty sorry about this, Royce.” He nodded toward a tree. “Got that stupid kid tied up so he can’t run off the minute we leave. Leavin’ your Colt lying right here by your hand in case you need it.”

Royce felt around and found the pistol. His hand closed around the grip. Voice hoarse, he managed to croak, “Obliged for what you’ve done, but...I’ll be coming after you.”

“Know it, wouldn’t expect nothing else from you, but least ways we’ll get a head start.”

The day passed in a blur as he wove in and out of consciousness. He drank from the canteen lying on his chest and spilled water over his face in the process. He could hear thrashing sounds coming from the tree where they’d tied his prisoner but couldn’t remain awake long enough to care if he got loose or not.

It was dark, and a cry split the night. He thought the sound had come from him, but then heard the angry snorting of Samson and the stamping of his hooves. The moon shone through the trees and glanced off the water—just enough light for him to see the kid scooting like a crab back to his tree. The screams continued, and he realized Samson was pursuing the boy and stomping him. Panicked, he felt for his gun, relieved when his hand closed over it.

He whistled. “Samson, whoa boy. Come here.” The horse continued to snort and shake his mane but finally came over and dropped his head to nuzzle his hand. “Good boy, Samson. Settle down, now.”

Moans and wails came from the tree. “I just wanted to leave, wasn’t going to hurt you none.” Royce heard movement and a scream. “Shit! I think he broke my leg. I don’t wanna die out here.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re not going to die.”

“Whadda you know? You’re gonna die too.” His wails turned to sobs.

“My brothers will be here by noon tomorrow, if not sooner. After Doc sets your leg, you’ll have a comfortable bed in a jail cell until you go on trial for shooting a Texas marshal.”

“Will...will they hang me?”

“Hard to say. Now stay put or sneak off. Either way, I don’t care, just stay away from me, or Samson will aim for your head next time.”

The effort required to talk sapped him. He closed his eyes and didn’t wake until Matthew lifted him from the ground to put him in the buckboard. Screams of pain vibrated from his chest.

“Hold on, little brother. You’ll be home soon, and Doc will fix you up.”

Royce was burning up and thirsty. Matthew brought the canteen to his lips and let him have small swallows. Cradled in his brother’s arms, the jolts from the ruts in the road were softened, but the pain was too much to bear. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he heard sketches of their conversation. “Fever...doesn’t look good...infection...”

****

Royce felt himself lifted and raised heavenward. He flowed as if on a cloud that held him suspended above the room. There was no more pain, just peace. He laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of the situation. For the first time in several months, his heart and soul were content.

Was he on his way to heaven? If so, the journey was as wonderful as the Bible had promised. Where was the bright light everyone talked about seeing?

A man’s heart-wrenching sobs drew his gaze to the scene below. His body lay in the bed he’d slept in as a child and on into manhood. He chuckled at the memory of his younger brother Jason climbing in beside him in the middle of the night. The kid was scared, and Royce didn’t have the heart to kick him out. He just pretended he didn’t notice he had company.

The sobs grew in intensity. They came from a man in the chair beside his bed.
Jason, oh Jason!
Don’t cry little brother.
He tried to reach out and touch his shoulder, tell him it was all right, but the force holding him kept him in place.

Jason’s hands dropped from his face. Hands fisted, he beat them against his thighs. He leaned toward the bed, grabbed his arm, and shook. Voice hoarse, he growled. “Damn you, Royce, you’ve given up. I never took you for a quitter. Fight dammit!”

The door opened and Jason covered his grief before he turned.
Garrett, his son, and all he had in the world to live for.
Shoulders slumped and face stricken, his son crept into the room. “Is my pa dead?” His lip quivered. Jason pulled him close and sat him on his knee.

“No, tadpole, he’s not, but...” Jason cleared his throat. “I don’t want to lie to you...it doesn’t look good.” Garrett threw his arms around his uncle’s neck and cried against his shoulder. Jason rocked and patted his back unable to find the words to give him comfort.

When Garrett’s crying slowed, he slipped to the floor and sobbed, “I wanna...hug...hug my daddy. I won’t hurt him...I promise.”

“Then that’s what you should do.” Jason stood with Garrett in his arms and laid him on top of Royce, his head near his heart. Garrett cried and patted his arms. His little body shook with grief. Jason rubbed his back. “It’s okay, Garrett. You just lay here and cry as long as you want. Nobody would understand any better than your pa. He loves you so much.” Jason stepped outside the room and partially closed the door.

Royce’s heart twisted with pain.
God, please! My son needs me.
His body soared, and the world went black.

Muted sounds broke through the darkness and rose in intensity—someone was crying. It was a child, his child, Garrett. “Help, help me, Pa.” Panicked, he looked around trying to discern where the cries were coming from. His eyes lit on the pond. He could just see Garrett’s head as he struggled in the water, cries of fright gurgling from the water. Royce broke into a run, but his legs felt like lead and he sagged with fatigue as he struggled to reach his son.
I’m coming, Garrett. Hang on, Son, I’ll get you.
Pain hit him in the chest. He fell to his knees and clawed at the earth trying to get up.
Help me, Lord...my boy...save my boy.
He pulled himself to the pond’s edge, and like an alligator, dug into the water, crawling across the mud bottom. At last his hands grasped clothing and he hung on, pushed his way back to the bank and fell over with Garrett clutched to his upper body. He squeezed his son against his heart, trying to force water from his lungs. His chest hurt, it hurt so bad he couldn’t breathe. Sobs wracked his body as he clutched at the boy, willing him to take air into his lungs.
God, no...Not my boy. Pleaseeee!
A horrible wail broke the darkness, echoed across the water, startling the birds sending them aloft.

Great sobs wracked Royce’s body as he clutched at his son’s lifeless form and moaned, “No, noooo.”

Loving pats touched his face. Garrett’s voice broke through the haze in his mind. “Wake up, Pa, I’m okay. You was havin’ a bad dream.”

Royce forced his eyes open, blinked to clear his vision, and looked down at the boy in his arms. A cry rose from deep within his chest.
Thank you, God! A dream, just a bad dream.
He cupped Garrett’s head and stroked his hair. Horror at how close he’d come to leaving his son fatherless, struck him like a blow to the chest. If he gave up, it was just as good as leaving his child on his own in that pond. Shame washed over him, and he hugged Garrett tighter. His throat constricted with emotion. He had so much to live for right here in his arms. “Don’t leave me, Son.”

“I won’t, Pa. I’ll be right here.” He sniffed. “Promise you won’t leave me.”

Smile on his lips, Royce closed his eyes and whispered. “I promise.”

****

Royce sat in a rocker on his front porch, a cup of coffee in his hand. The October night air was cool and fresh, natures sounds comforting. Garrett was upstairs in bed, tired after a long day of making sure his daddy didn’t overdo. His son’s protectiveness brought a smile to his lips. He was a lucky man to have such a wonderful child, family, and friends. Only one thing could make him happier—to have Texanna with him, but that wasn’t meant to be.

Today was his first day home. Aggie would be coming over every morning the remainder of the week to cook for him and Garrett. Doc said he had to eat three good meals a day and start moving around slowly to regain his strength. He was as weak as a baby. Just getting upstairs wore him out. Tomorrow he’d start working his arm some, stretching the muscles. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he’d been lucky the bullet had passed clean through without hitting bone or a major blood vessel.