[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (20 page)

Burmeister shrugged. "How long must it be before he learns he cannot dry up Fort Belknap? Always, freight wagons bring fresh whiskey. And where does he get the money to buy?"

"There's people in town who buy it for him. I think they get him drunk so he'll tell them what we're doin' out here and what we're fixin' to do. There's many that don't want rangers interferin' in their business."

"Detail someone to bring him. Handcuff him to a tree until the whiskey has gone from him."

"Was it left to me, I'd give him a lick or two with a quirt and send him packin'."

"Sober, he is a good man."

"Drunk, he's useless to himself and to this company. But you're the captain, Dutch. If you want to keep him on the payroll, that's your business."

"On the payroll? I think you make the joke. How long is it since we have been paid?"

"Money is one thing I don't joke about. I've never had enough that it ever got funny."

Burmeister's gaze sought out Rusty. "Haskins was to be on patrol today. David Shannon, you will take his place."

Rusty was not certain of the proper response, so he made an effort at a salute. He said, "You bet."

Burmeister winced.

Rusty whispered to Tanner, "Did I do somethin' wrong?"

"I think you're supposed to say, 'You bet,
sir
.' "

* * *

The patrol moved northward toward the Red River. At first Alamo looked back, wanting to travel southward toward home. But after a half mile or so he reconciled with reality and plodded along, keeping good pace with the other horses. Rusty studied the riders around him. They had little of a military look about them. Their clothing was a rainbow of colors and a random mix of homespun cotton, wool, and buckskin, most of it showing the effects of rough use.

He remembered what Tom Blessing had called the volunteer patrols along the frontier: the buckskin line.

Tanner asked Rusty, "You any good at followin' tracks?"

"I've trailed deer. Followed a wolf one time for two miles 'til I found its den."

"This ought not to be too tough, then. We'll be watchin' for horse tracks that don't belong."

"How do you know which ones don't belong?"

"When the hair raises up on the back of your neck."

Sergeant Whitfield was in charge of the patrol. He seemed a man not given to smiling easily, for Rusty had seen no sign of levity about him. Nor did he have much to say beyond the orders necessary to get the patrol under way. Despite his considerable size, Whitfield seemed to sit easy in the saddle. He set the pace, an easy trot the horses could maintain for long stretches of time.

Rusty soon saw that the sergeant had a way of watching the ground without missing anything that happened around him. Once, seeing distant dark objects that aroused his suspicion, he detailed Rusty and Tanner to ride out and investigate. "Don't get too close 'til you're sure it's not Indians. I don't want to explain to the captain why I let a couple of chuckleheaded boys get themselves killed."

Tanner assured him, "I've already laid out my plans for the day, and gettin' killed ain't on the list." He made a halfhearted attempt to laugh but dropped it when he received no response from Whitfield. The sergeant was all business.

Rusty noted that though Tanner seemed on the surface to shrug off the notion of danger, he was cautious in his approach to the dark specks Whitfield had seen in the tall grass. Tanner carried his rifle across the pommel of his saddle, his right hand nervously rubbing the wooden stock.

Two buffalo bulls jumped up, snorted, and loped away in an awkward rocking gait, grumbling at the disturbance. Relieved, Tanner expelled a long breath. Rusty realized he had been holding it.

Tanner said, "At least it'll give the sergeant somethin' to write in his report. `Jumped two buffalo. Found no Indians.' "

"The day's a long way from done. How do you know we won't find any Indians?"

"If there'd been any around, they'd've already killed them two bulls for meat."

Tanner's professed confidence did not lessen Rusty's watchfulness. He found himself looking to the horizon more than to the ground where any horse tracks might be. But he reasoned that sergeant Whitfield was watchful enough for both of them.

They camped on the south bank of the Red River. Whitfield detailed Tanner to make bread and Rusty to brew the coffee. Rusty dipped the pot into the river to fill it. Somehow the water looked a bit less muddy in the pot than it did out in the channel, though it still retained some of the red clay color.

Tanner saw Rusty's uncertainty. "A little mud makes for stronger coffee. They say our bodies are made of clay anyhow. But if it bothers you, grow yourself a moustache like the sergeant's. Then you can strain your coffee."

Whitfield had started a fire. Rusty hung the pot on a short steel bar and looked at Tanner. "Did you ever have a serious thought in your life?"

"Sure. I've tried cryin' and I've tried laughin'. I like laughin' better."

Sergeant Whitfield looked reproachfully at Tanner. "I want to hear you laugh someday when the Comanches swarm down on us like a hunch of hornets."

Tanner turned to kneading dough, which had a faint reddish tinge from the river water he mixed with the flour. "You'll be way too busy to listen to me."

The meager supper of bread and salt pork and coffee left Rusty wondering how much Red River mud he had ingested and whether it might leave any lasting damage to his digestive system. He had been too hungry to notice if it had any distinctive flavor.

Sergeant Whitfield beckoned him a little distance away from the rest of the men. Whitfield seemed reluctant to broach his subject. "Ordinarily, I don't ask a man about his politics. Who he votes for is his own business. But you know the people of Texas are votin' right now as to whether or not they want to stay in the union."

"So I've been told."

"We won't get a chance to vote out here, but just the same, we'll be in the stew when the pot comes to a boil. You heard Colonel Dawkins. He's just one of a great many that's ready to breathe fire and brimstone after the vote is counted. It's goin' to be almighty important where every man stands."

"My daddy was strong for stayin' in the union. A lot of good friends are for pullin' out. If I could vote, I don't know which way I'd swing."

"I don't know if you'll be able to sit on the fence. They're apt to tear it down, and you'll be forced to take a stand."

"Then I'll stand with Texas. Not the union, not the confederacy, but Texas."

Whitfield's mouth was grim. "That suits me, but there's lots of people it won't. You may be in for hell."

Rusty thought back to the pursuit of the Comanches, to the finding of the butchered woman. He thought back to the murder of Daddy Mike. He said, "I've already had a taste of hell."

* * *

Good news travels afoot. Bad news rides a fast horse. The election results were quick to reach the frontier, and they held no surprises. By a strong majority, Texas voters had supported secession. The report brought cheers in Fort Belknap but found a mixed reception in the ranger camp. "Though a rumor had spread quickly among the men, Captain Burmeister called them into formation to make the announcement official.

His face was solemn, his voice so subdued that Rusty could barely hear it. "Men, the news is come. The vote was as we have thought, for secession. Very soon the Texas legislature will meet. No longer will we stand under the flag of the United States."

The men waited in silence, contemplating their individual futures, until Tanner asked, "If we ain't Americans anymore, what are we?"

Burmeister stared at the ground. Rusty thought he saw tears in the captain's eyes. "That, you must each decide. Almost thirty years now, I have been an American. An American I will remain."

He turned and walked back to his tent without dismissing the formation. Sergeant Whitfield gravely watched him go. "All right," he said finally, "dismissed."

The following morning Burmeister called the company into formation and turned the command over to Whitfield. "Until they send someone, you will be in charge. Perhaps they will send no one. Then the company is yours if you want it."

Uncertainty creased Whitfield's face. His heavy moustache seemed to droop. "The whole country's fixin' to turn upside down. They may not want any rangers at all. Where'll you go, Dutch?"

"Across the river. I will offer myself to the federal army. If they do not want me ... perhaps to Colorado. Texas under a different flag cannot be my home."

"It won't be the same without you."

"With or without me, it will not he the same again." Burmeister shook Whitfield's hand, then turned to the men who stood in loose formation. "May God be with us all."

Rusty felt a catch in his throat. He had not been here long enough to know the captain beyond a modest surface acquaintance, yet in a strange way he felt he had known him always. He lent his voice to those of the men, who all shouted their individual good-byes.

As Burmeister rode away, leading a pack mule, Rusty heard a man behind him say, "The captain was a foreigner when he came here, and he was still a foreigner when he left. He never was a real Texan."

Angrily Whitfield turned on him. "He's a hell of a good man, and as good a Texan as you'll ever see. I'll not have you or anybody else speak ill of him."

The man's voice indicated no backing down. "What about you, Whitfield? You for the union or the Confederacy?"

Whitfield looked at Rusty before he answered. "I stand with Texas."

RED RIVER, FALL, 1862

.

Buffalo Caller had left his horse and the rest of his raiding party in the cover of timber while he walked to the edge of the muddy river for a careful look at the other side. To his right, the sun had descended almost to the horizon and was reflected in brilliant colors against a few flat clouds barren of rain. It had been a dry summer and fall. The horses had not fattened as he would have liked for the journey, but a full moon was near. If the enterprise was to be undertaken at all, it must he done now. Shorter days promised that winter's bitter breath would soon blow across the land. No Comanche liked to travel when snow lay heavy on the ground and ice crusted the edges of every stream. That was a time to hover near the lodge center's fire and recount the glory deeds of olden days.

Buffalo Caller paused at the edge of the brush that lined the upper bank. His gaze searched the far side. He had no reason to fear the bluecoat soldiers, for most had gone away to fight a white man's war somewhere to the east. He knew that on the Texas side of the river, the bluecoats were regarded as an enemy just as the Comanches themselves were.

He did not understand why white men had gone to war against one another, but the reasons were of no importance. What mattered was that the
teibos
were distracted by their own fight. Many white men had left the Texas settlements to join the war, leaving the countryside thinly defended. It had become easier for raiding parties to reenter their old hunting grounds and escape with whatever spoils they were able to garner along the way. Many settler families had abandoned homes on the leading edge of the frontier, retreating eastward to the relative safety of the older settlements. Others had gathered into makeshift forts for mutual protection, venturing out only in numbers sufficient for a meaningful defense.

Buffalo Caller hoped the white men's war would go on forever. Perhaps The People might regain the lost portions of Comancheria. It was theirs by the sacred right of conquest. They had won it the honorable way, in war, wresting it from the hated Apaches and other claimants. They had not stolen it piecemeal like the white man, but boldly and swiftly at a high cost in blood. They had held it with lance, arrow, and club until the Americans had come swarming in, numerous as the ants and greedy as the fat hogs they brought with them.

He watched until the sun disappeared beyond the source of the broad, shallow river, for they would wait until darkness before crossing. Not once did he see any sign of white men. Lacking the bluecoat soldiers anymore, the Texans had only scattered roving groups belonging to a warrior society known as rangers. They could be ferocious when encountered, but with help from benevolent guardian spirits a raiding party could usually go around them. Buffalo Caller had always been careful to observe the requirements of his spirits and avoid their displeasure. Rarely had his medicine proven weak.

When darkness had swallowed the shadows and before the moon rose to magnify its brilliance in the water, he decided it was time to cross over. He felt no need to voice orders, for The People's way was fully democratic. It was each warrior's right either to follow the leader or to head off in his own direction. Buffalo Caller had never lacked for warriors eager to accompany him, however. Seldom did one of his raids fail to reward them with horses, and more often than not, their victories yielded a few scalps as well. It was always good to make the white men bleed for their perfidy.

He grasped his pony's mane and pulled himself up onto its back. Of late he had become aware that his knees no longer had the spring he remembered from his youth. Exertion that never used to bother him would set his heart to pounding. But though the body had slowed and gray was invading his once-black hair, the mind had gained in wisdom. Among the People, age was accorded respect. Lessons taught by experience offset the weight of years. He paused at the riverbank to take a final look, then put the pony into the water. He did not have to look back to know that his warriors followed. He could hear their horses splashing.

They were good men—young, of course, except for his friend Broken Leg, who was perhaps becoming too old for the kind of fast travel that would be expected of him the next few days and nights. Buffalo Caller had been hesitant about allowing him to come along, but Broken Leg had pointed out that they were the same age, born the same winter in a tribal encampment sheltered by high walls of the caprock. Buffalo Caller had reluctantly accepted him, though he feared his friend might handicap the party in an emergency. He hoped some young warrior would not die because of the old one.