[Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta (11 page)

Farley grunted. “It was a damn-fool thing to do, seein’ as the man they was after had already lit out.”

“You didn’t know that at the time.”

“This Badger Boy of yours was all set to try it by himself. When he takes it in his head to do somethin’, you couldn’t beat it out of him with a club.”

Rusty nodded. “I’ve got no quarrel with that.”

“Fool kid could’ve got us both killed.” Farley glowered at Andy. “Look what happened to me. I deserve it for takin’ pity on him.”

Rusty said, “You got it for doin’ the right thing.”

“That Jayce Landon is a knot-headed idiot. The only reason I’d give a damn what happens to him is that he’s got a wife who ought to’ve done better for herself. And a goodhearted daddy-in-law. Do you know he’s out in the field right now, workin’ like a hired hand? And her with him.”

Andy took that for a sign Farley might be mellowing. The Bracketts still had the help of a black woman who once had been their slave. She now worked for her keep and received a modest wage when Elnora and Bethel had any money to pay her. When they did not, she stayed anyway. She had nowhere else to go. Andy could hear her clanging pots and pans in the kitchen. It reminded him he was hungry.

Farley tried to get out of bed but gave up. “I’m damned tired of takin’ my meals in bed like a baby.”

The black woman brought him his meal, but he ate only a little of it. He stared at the window and offered no more conversation.

Flora Landon and her father came in for dinner. Andy noticed that the first thing she did was go to Farley’s room to see about him. She came back shortly, grinning. She said, “I thought Jayce knew every cuss word in the language, but I believe Farley could teach him some. When he finally gets up he’s liable to drag that bed outside and burn it.”

Her father asked Andy, “Seen any more of Sheriff Truscott or Big’un?”

“No, but I ain’t been lookin’ for them.”

“Watch out. They’re liable to come lookin’ for you.”

The meal finished, Andy felt reluctant to leave. For one thing, visiting with Bethel and her mother seemed to have brought some life back into Rusty’s eyes. But duty’s call was loud. Andy jerked his head at Rusty. “It’s a long way to the San Saba.”

Farley shouted from his bedroom, “Saddle my horse for me. I’m goin’ too.”

Bethel cast a sad glance at Andy.

Rusty said, “Farley knows he can’t. It just gets under his skin to have to depend on other people.”

Andy and Rusty said their good-byes to Elnora and the Landons. Bethel followed them out onto the porch. She told Andy, “Write me a letter once in a while. Let a body know you’re still among the living.”

“I’m not much of a hand with pencil and paper. But I’ll try.”

Rusty said, “I’ll see that he does.”

Riding away, Andy looked back. Bethel remained on the porch, watching them.

Rusty said, “One word from you and she would follow you anywhere.”

“To a Ranger camp? What could she do there?”

“You won’t stay with the Rangers all your life. Nobody does.”

They rode awhile before Andy said, “I’m tempted to go back up the river and see if there’s any news about Jayce. Dick Landon would want to know about his brother.”

Rusty threw cold water on the idea. “I’ve heard stories about the Hoppers and the Landons. Especially the Hoppers. I’d as soon see you stick your head into a rattlesnake den.”

“I wish there was somethin’ we could do about that double-dealin’ Big’un.”

“Time has a way of payin’ off his kind of people. Chances are that some Landon will clean his plow or he’ll get caught dippin’ his hands into the county treasury.”

“I hate to ride away and leave things hangin’.”

“If trouble is lookin’ for you it’ll find you without you huntin’ it. Let the Landons and the Hoppers fight it out amongst theirselves.”

The next morning they rode for several miles in brooding silence. Andy was thinking about the unfinished business with Big’un Hopper and his kin. He suspected Rusty was thinking about his farm and Josie Monahan.

At length Andy said, “Folks holler about savage Indians, but I don’t see that they’re any more savage than people that go feudin’ and killin’ one another. Most of them don’t even know anymore what the fightin’ is about.”

Rusty pointed out, “Comanches kill Apaches any time they can. And Apaches kill Comanches the same way.”

“That’s different. They’re blood enemies.”

“Why? What started it?”

Andy tried in vain to remember if anybody had ever told him. “I’d guess it might’ve commenced over horses a long time ago. Somebody stole them and somebody else wanted them back. Or maybe somebody insulted somebody. With Apaches, who cares?”

“See, you ain’t got past all of your Comanche raisin’. You hate Apaches without knowin’ why. Comanche or Apache, they’re all Indians. It’s a family feud just like with the Landons and the Hoppers. And it doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

That stung, although Andy could not quite reconcile himself to Rusty’s viewpoint. Every Comanche knew that Apaches were like rattlesnakes, to be killed wherever they were found. Children were taught that lesson as soon as they were able to learn. “It’s the People’s way,” he said.

“Killin’ one another is the Hoppers’ and the Landons’ way. The Lord never made any perfect humans, Indian or white.”

West of Austin the rugged topography always lifted Andy’s spirit. It seemed to lift Rusty’s too, for his eyes brightened as he surveyed the rough terrain, the live-oak flats, the limestone layers that were like broken stair steps up the sides of the hills. He said, “I never spent much time out in this part of the country. I wish I had. It’s pretty.”

“Pretty wild.”

“If I was just startin’ out and didn’t already have my farm, I think I’d find me a place out here. I’d set my roots deep and never leave it the rest of my life.”

Andy was gratified to see Rusty beginning to come out of the darkness. “I’ve studied on it some myself.”

He remembered older Comanches’ accounts of long hunting trips down into this land rich in water and grass and game. By the time he was with them they never ventured this far south anymore except to raid. The Texans had made it too dangerous for them to stay. In Andy’s view the hill country had not yet been spoiled by civilization. Most of it was too rough to be violated by the plow except for narrow valleys where soil had washed down from the steep hillsides to accumulate deep and rich. In springtime it was like a boundless garden exploding in color with bluebonnets and other wildflowers. Now in summer the season of blooming was gone and the maturing grass was more brown than green. Spring was short, but the memory was long.

It was a perfect haven for grazers and browsers, wild and domestic. Now and then Andy glimpsed white-tailed deer. Alert to danger, they bounded into the cedar thickets and live-oak mottes long before the horsemen reached them. A hunter needed stealth and steady nerves to stalk them with a rifle. How much harder it would be, he thought, to stalk them with a bow and arrow as the Indians traditionally did.

He saw wild turkeys too. He brought one down with a well-aimed shot to the head.

“What did you do that for?” Rusty asked. “It’s hard to strip off the feathers without boilin’ water to scald the bird.”

“I’ll skin him like a squirrel. He’ll make a nice supper.” Andy was proud of his shot. Bringing down a turkey with a rifle was a test of marksmanship. Rusty had taught him so well in the use of the rifle that Andy was now the better shot. In fact, when he gave it any thought he realized that Rusty had taught him most of what he knew about living in the white man’s world.

Having finished all he wanted of the turkey, he sat on the ground a little way from the dwindling campfire. The night was warm enough that he did not need the heat. He said, “You’re studyin’ me awful hard.”

Rusty said, “I was wonderin’ with your Indian raisin’ why you ever decided to be a Ranger. Rangers and Comanches have fought one another ever since Stephen F. Austin’s time.”

“It’s more like the life I had with the Comanches than the life I had on your farm.”

“But it’s not a job you’d want to spend the rest of your years at. Even if you could depend on it, which you can’t. The state is always runnin’ out of money. You never know from one month to the next if you’ll get paid.”

“Money’s not the main thing.”

“It’s easy to say money’s not important when you’ve got a little in your pocket. It looks different when you don’t have any. First time the state’s money gets tight they’ll cut the Rangers again. Folks back in East Texas will say the Indian fightin’ is done so there’s no use spendin’ that tax money. But let a bank get robbed or somebody get killed and they’ll holler, ‘Where’s the Rangers?’”

An owl hooted. Andy felt a chill. “Hear that?”

“It’s just an owl in the tree yonder. He’s probably lonesome for company.

“I don’t like owls. They bring nothin’ but bad luck.”

“That’s just an old Comanche notion.”

“Some Comanche notions are real. Owls are bad medicine.”

Andy lost himself awhile in memories of his Comanche life. He was shaken back to reality by the sound of a horse’s hoofs striking against the limestone rocks. He reached for his rifle.

A voice called from the darkness, “Hello, the camp. All right if I come in?”

Rusty shouted, “Come ahead.” He was watchful but did not seem worried. Andy’s instincts told him to keep his hand on a gun.

The rider dismounted at the edge of the firelight and tied his horse where it would not kick dust into the cook fire. He appeared to be of middle age. He had several days’ growth of whiskers, though his hair was cut short. If he carried a weapon it was hidden. “Glad I seen your fire. I was about to make a cold camp, and a hungry one.”

Rusty said, “You’re welcome to what’s left of a skinny turkey You’ve traveled a ways by the looks of you.”

“Several days, but I think I’m gettin’ close to what I’m lookin’ for. You-all know anything about a Ranger camp out thisaway?”

Rusty said, “Reckon we do. You thinkin’ about joinin’ up?”

“Me join the Rangers? Not hardly.” The visitor seemed to find dark humor in the thought. “But I’ve got business with them.”

Andy was still tense, trying to gauge the stranger’s tone of voice. “You got a quarrel with the Rangers?”

“No, I stay away from the law and hope it stays away from me. Took me a long time to learn that, and I’ve got the gray hair to show for it. You say you know where the camp is at?”

Rusty said, “We’re headed that way ourselves.”

The stranger stiffened. “You’re Rangers?”

Andy did not like the reaction. “I am. Rusty’s fixin’ to be. Is there somethin’ we can do for you?”

“The Rangers been keepin’ somethin’ of mine.”

Andy burned to ask for more details, but he considered it ill manners to be inquisitive without a clear reason. The visitor attacked the remnant of turkey as if he had not eaten in two days. Andy boiled a can of fresh coffee. The stranger blew steam from a cupful and drank it without waiting for it to cool.

Rusty said, “It ain’t much, but it’s the best we can do travelin’ across country.”

The stranger made a gesture of approval. “It’s mighty fine. Where I been they don’t know nothin’ about makin’ coffee, or much of anything else.”

Andy itched to ask him where that was, but if it was important he would know in time. If it wasn’t, it made no difference.

The stranger rubbed his stomach with satisfaction. “Couldn’t be no better if you’d served it on golden plates. I’m obliged.” He poured the last of the coffee. “Be all right with you fellers if I spread my roll here tonight and ride along with you tomorrow?”

Andy had doubts. But Rusty said, “I don’t see any reason not to.”

“I ought to let you know right off. I just come from a stretch in the penitentiary. You might not be comfortable with the likes of me around.”

Andy’s suspicions were confirmed. “If you escaped, we’ll be honor-bound to take you in.”

“No, I served my time and got out legal. They gave me a few dollars and a suit of clothes. Said they didn’t want to see my ugly face no more, and I promised them they wouldn’t.”

Rusty said, “As long as you’ve paid up fair and square, I don’t see where we’ve got any kick comin’. I’m Rusty Shannon. This is Andy Pickard.”

The stranger nodded but did not offer to shake hands. “My name’s Tennyson. Lige Tennyson.”

Tennyson. Andy’s pulse quickened. “Have you got a boy that goes by the name of Scooter?”

The stranger spilled some of his coffee. “You know him?”

Andy stared into the fire, his stomach uneasy. “I know him.”

He was sure now why Lige Tennyson had come looking for the Rangers.

Tennyson walked off into the darkness to take care of necessities. Andy said, “We can’t let him take Scooter away.”

“He’s the boy’s daddy.”

“But he’s an outlaw. He’s been in the pen.”

“He’s served his time.”

“What if he goes back to his old ways and drags Scooter along with him? We can’t let that happen.”