[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (18 page)

"Ain't nothin' pleases them more than a little barbecued Comanche. Eatin' their enemy gives them some of his strength, the way they figure it. Of course that makes other Indians hate them. Now you Texans have moved them up into the territory and put them smack-dab in the middle of their enemies. It'll be a wonder if the other tribes don't kill them all."

The lieutenant said, "They have the army's protection."

Rusty blurted, "Like the army's always protected Texas?"

The lieutenant's pained expression showed that the barb had bitten into the flesh. "I suppose you are one of those who plans to vote for secession?"

"I doubt I'll get a chance to vote one way or the other. If I did, I'm not sure which way I'd choose."

"Perhaps you have not heard. The vote is to be taken this coming Saturday. There are a few counties in the northern section still strongly pro-federal, and the German colonies near San Antonio. The rest of Texas seems bound and determined to charge up Fool's Hill."

Rusty had not realized the voting day was imminent. The news shook him a little. Daddy Mike had predicted bad trouble once the vote was taken. So had Lon Monahan. "What happens to the federal army if Texas pulls out?" he asked.

Harrison said, "The soldiers may find theirselves fightin' Texans instead of Comanches."

The lieutenant frowned. "No, more than likely the army will simply be ordered to withdraw all troops from the state."

Rusty knew many Texans would welcome that result, but he feared they had not thought the implications through. Despite the army's many shortcomings, it had provided the frontier at least a little protection. If it withdrew, Texas would have to fall back entirely upon its own resources: the local militia and rangers or minutemen. During the ten years it had been a republic Texas had never put together enough money to wad a shotgun. It had fared but little better as a state. He saw no reason to expect its positions to improve once it was no longer part of the United States.

He remarked, "Looks to me like we're fixin' to cook our own goose."

The officer suggested, "You could vote against secession."

"That wouldn't change anything. I'd about as well try to dam up the Brazos River with a pitchfork."

Rusty kept watching in fascination the Indians who pushed the recovered horses along. Most had changed to fresh mounts, having worn down their original ones in the pursuit. The stolen animals had been driven hard but had not carried the burden of men on their backs. The Tonkawas' winter clothing was a mixture of long breechcloths, tanned leathers, and whiteman castoffs. For protection against the cold, some covered their shoulders and torsos with buffalo robes, others with woolen blankets. Some wore earrings and necklaces of animal teeth or shells.

Harrison told him, "You'd best take a good look at them. The Tonkawas are dyin' out."

"These look pretty strong to me."

"As Indians go, there ain't many left. White man's diseases ... hostile tribes ... Pretty soon they'll all be gone."

"I expect a lot of people would be glad to dance at the last one's funeral."

"Just you Texans who can't tell Indians apart. If you ever got to know them, you'd see that there's a world of difference between Tonkawas and Comanches."

"The Comanches stole me once when I was little. I can't remember much except bein' scared."

"It's lucky your folks got you back."

"They evidently killed my folks. Other people took and raised me."

"You Texans think because some Indians are bad, they all are. I guess your experience made you hate all Indians."

"I don't hate anybody." Rusty reconsidered. "Except maybe one man, and he's white."

"Indians have got ways of their own. That don't make them good or bad, it just makes them different. These Tonkawas were ready to've killed the horse thieves if they'd caught them, and you'd've heard weepin' and wailin' about an Indian massacre. But do you think white men would've been different? If it was their horses they'd've been hell-bent to hang everybody they caught."

"Texans aren't all alike, either. Because some are bad, you think they all are."

Harrison almost smiled. "There may be an exception here and there."

* * *

They were a few miles short of Fort Belknap when a dozen horsemen suddenly appeared three hundred yards in front of them, fanned out as if to offer battle. One prematurely fired a shot, which took no effect that Rusty could see. A soldier who had been riding point ahead of the remuda spurred toward them, his right arm raised, so the riders could see that the Indians had a military escort. One of the newcomers, evidently their leader, waved his hat and signaled for those on the flanks to rejoin the main group. As they pulled together, he motioned for them to hold their position while he rode forward. He swung out to one side and slowed to let the driven horses pass. He gave the Indians a critical study before proceeding to meet the lieutenant. He wore no uniform but carried himself in a military manner. He brought his hand up in a sharp salute, touching the brim of a well-worn felt hat. His back was arrow-straight, his black-and-gray moustache smartly trimmed and turned up at the ends.

In a stiffly formal manner he said, "We were sent a report of Indians passing through the country. It was our fear that they were Comanche or Kiowa."

The words were clipped. Rusty detected a trace of accent similar to that of Germans he knew on the Colorado.

The lieutenant's tone was condescending. "As even a Texan can see, they are Tonkawas."

"Often I have ridden with the Tonkawas. But even they are forbidden now south of the Red River. From where obtained they so many horses?"

The lieutenant plainly was not used to being questioned by civilians who did not show proper deference to their betters. "These horses belong to them. They were stolen off the reservation. And who are you to be asking questions of a military officer?"

"I am August Burmeister, a captain of the state rangers."

The lieutenant was not impressed. "If you Texans were as diligent in going after white thieves as red ones, these Indians might not have found it necessary to come south of the river. But as you can see, they are under federal military escort."

"Ah yes, the federals." Burmeister was not impressed either. He pointed his chin northward. "You are on your way to Belknap, I assume?"

"No. Do you think I would give the trigger-happy citizens of that ill- begotten community an excuse for killing more peaceful Indians? However, we have a man here to turn over to the proper persons." He jerked a thumb in Rusty's direction.

Burmeister tugged at one end of his moustache while giving Rusty an intense scrutiny. "And what is it this man has done?"

"We found him with the horse thieves. He claims he was traveling north and encountered them by chance. We'll leave it to you to determine the truth of the matter. I trust if he is guilty of stealing Indian horses, you will deal with him in an appropriate manner?"

The question was offered in an ironic voice that said the officer had no such expectation.

Rusty saw no harm in revealing his mission now. He took from his coat pocket the map and a note Tom Blessing had written. "I was on my way to Fort Belknap to report to you," he told the ranger.

As the captain read the note, his expression lost its severity. A smile lifted the moustache. "Tom Blessing. A good man he is. I was with him when we battled Comanches at Plum Creek."

"I was there, too," Rusty said.

"How could that be? Twenty years ago, it was."

"Do you remember a little boy there, rescued from the Indians?"

"I do. He was red-haired." The captain gave Rusty a closer study. "It would seem he is still red-haired."

"The name's Rusty Shannon. In the letter, Tom Blessing calls me
David
."

The captain shook his hand. "Shannon. The name seems
bekannt.
Was there not someone called Shannon at Plum Creek?"

"Mike Shannon, my father. Foster father, anyway. They never found out who my real folks were, so he took me to raise, him and Mother Dora."

"A man of the cloth rode with him, I believe. His arm was broken in the fight."

"That'd be Preacher Webb. Him and Daddy Mike were always close."

"They are both well, I hope."

"Preacher Webb still carries the Word to the folks of the creek." Rusty's throat tightened. "Daddy Mike is dead."

"That I regret. They fought a good fight. We all fought a good fight." Burmeister looked back to the lieutenant. "This young man need concern you no longer, Captain."

"Lieutenant."

"Lieutenant. Yes, I should have known." Burmeister's look showed his opinion of lieutenants.

The officer rebuked Rusty with his eyes. "You should have told us you belonged to this company."

"I was afraid you might have less use for Texas rangers than you do for Texas horse thieves."

"I find them similar in many respects. Come along, Harrison. The Tonkawas are getting ahead of us."

The scout Harrison gave Rusty a wink and put his horse into a long trot to catch up with the departing officer.

Burmeister watched the two ride away. "I agree not with this talk of breaking away from the union. But such officers could do much to change my mind."

With a nod he bade Rusty to follow him to where the rest of his ranger contingent waited. One of the men, rangy and hungry-looking, leaned forward, bracing his hands on the horn of his saddle. He wore a tattered buckskin jacket, crudely patched. His face was heavily freckled, and his eyes laughed. "Couldn't you talk us into a fight with them Yankee boys and their Indians, Dutch? We need the practice."

"I have ridden with the Tonkawas as allies. You would not want them for an enemy." Burmeister's moustache lifted at both ends. "Besides, Tanner, you are too skinny to interest them. Not even good soup would you make."

The man named Tanner turned his attention to Rusty. "Looks like they rejected this one, too. He ain't got much more meat on him than I have."

Burmeister introduced Rusty to the group. "David Shannon. Tom Blessing has sent him to join our little company."

Tanner shook Rusty's hand. "Welcome, David."

"Call me Rusty."

"Hope you brought money enough to run us awhile, Rusty, because pay don't come often around here and don't amount to much when it does."

Rusty had only four dollars but saw no reason to admit to poverty. Many in this group had a ragged appearance, which indicated they could not show even that much.

Tanner pointed at Chapultepec. "Worst come to worst, we can always eat the mule."

Somebody shouted, "Ain't that cannibalism, Tanner, eatin' your own kind?"

Rusty decided he was going to like this bunch.

Before they reached the tent camp, two men passed them, racing horses at breakneck speed across the open prairie and shouting in glee. It looked like fun to Rusty, but Burmeister frowned. "They have not enough to do when they do not ride the line. They will break a horse's leg one day, or a man's neck. But I cannot forbid them. Two months' pay they are owed."

The camp crowded against a clump of timber a short distance from Fort Belknap. The military post that had lent the small settlement its name had been vacated by the army a few years earlier. Rusty suspected the rangers had been placed away from the town so they would be less exposed to urban temptations. However, lack of spending money accomplished that purpose. The state required each man to furnish his own horse and firearms, and it was to supply the other necessities. The spartan nature of the camp indicated to Rusty that the state's definition of necessities was poor and lean. Texas was rich only in ambition and spirit. Its leaders had nothing in their pockets except their hands, but they gave voice to extravagant dreams. Texas was a great someday land.

Burmeister watched Rusty remove the pack from Chapultepec. "I wish I could say the state will pay you for use of the mule. Promises I can give you. Money I cannot."

"Wasn't money that I came for."

"For what
did
you come?"

The primary reason was that Tom Blessing had told him to, but he doubted that was what Burmeister would want to hear. "Duty. Daddy Mike always preached that we owe it to our neighbors to serve wherever we can."

"A wise man, your father. I hope he taught you well in other things."

"He taught me to plow a straight furrow. He taught me to hit what I aim at."

"Did he teach you to know what you should aim at and what you should not?"

Rusty frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Never mind. When it is important, I think you will know."

Burmeister queried Rusty at length about the horse thieves he had encountered and jotted a few notes in a small book. Rusty doubted that he had told enough to be useful.

Burmeister frowned. "If you see some of them again, it would surprise me none. There are in this vicinity those who have little regard for property other than their own."

As the captain moved away, the lanky Tanner edged closer, observing Rusty's saddle and other accoutrements. Rusty thought about counting the freckles on the ranger's face but decided that would take until dark, even if Tanner held still.

Tanner said, "You ain't long off of the farm."

"How can you tell?"

"Your hands are set in the shape of a plow handle, and ain't nobody but a dry-dirt farmer would be ridin' a saddle as old as that."

Rusty felt defensive. "It keeps me on the horse."

"What you want to do is catch you a lawbreaker that's got a good saddle. Shoot him and confiscate the saddle as contraband. If a man is a sure enough shot, he can put a good outfit together in almost no time atall."

Rusty was momentarily taken aback until a twinkle in Tanner's eyes told him the ranger was trying to run a sandy on a newcomer.

Tanner said, "That's how I got my saddle. Only it turned out he was innocent. The joke was on me."

"I'll bet you both got a laugh out of it."