[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (23 page)

Billy complied. Rusty gritted his teeth and held his breath while Tanner and Billy lifted him. Movement set the leg to hurting badly again. Tanner threw Rusty's saddle, blanket, and few possibles into the wagon bed, then tied Alamo on behind. He said, "Before you get into another Indian fight, you'd better train this horse to mind."

"It was his first time up so close. Mine, too."

"Probably won't be the last. Now, don't you linger any longer than you have to. The state ain't payin' you to idle around."

"Or for anything else." Rusty reached over the sideboard to shake Tanner's hand. "You watch out some Comanche doesn't slip up on the blind side of you and cut your hair."

Monahan and his son climbed up onto the seat. Monahan cautioned, "It'll be rough in spots, so take a grip. The Comanches never built any roads out here, and neither has the state."

Tanner stood with narrow shoulders slumped and watched the wagon pull away. Rusty felt a tug of regret at the parting. He had been with the company more than a year now, patrolling the line, watching for Indian sign, and seldom finding any. Yesterday's engagement was the closest he had come to being in a real fight where he could see the color of the enemy's eyes. But he had enjoyed the life despite its lack of comforts, despite its sometimes monotonous routine, despite the slowness of pay scanty by any standard and irregular in arrival. He had enjoyed the bond that had grown among members of the company, riding together, camping together day after day, playing cards, occasionally racing horses.

Jim and Johnny Morris had shown him how close brothers could be, though they argued about trivial matters from time to time. Rusty had grown to regard Tanner as a substitute for the brother he never had. But Tanner had family back in the East Texas blacklands and had taken leave a couple of times to visit them. He wrote and received letters at fairly regular intervals. Rusty had received no letters except an occasional brief message from Preacher Webb, nor had he anyone else to write a letter to. When other men talked of their families, he was achingly aware that he had none.

The Monahans did not make a lot of unnecessary talk on the way south to the farm. They knew the rough ground caused Rusty considerable pain, and they did not bother him with useless conversation. The elder Monahan held the reins. He was careful to seek out the most benign terrain he could find, though much of the time he had little choice. One way was as rugged as another. Rusty managed to doze for short periods when the going smoothed out, though he remained always conscious of the throbbing in his leg.

The Monahan women met the wagon in their front yard. Geneva Monahan said nothing but pressed the palm of her hand against her mouth, her stricken eyes telling Rusty what she was thinking.

Clemmie anxiously looked over the sideboard. "My land, he looks more dead than alive. I hope you-all stopped along the way now and again to let him rest."

"Couldn't afford to," Lon replied. "If dark had caught us we'd've had to camp a second night. Wanted to get him here to your tender mercies the fastest we could."

"Let's carry him into the house. Preacher Webb ain't showed up yet. Lord knows how far Papa has to ride to find him."

By that, Rusty assumed that Clemmie's father had gone to search for Webb. He realized he had not seen Geneva's older brother or heard him mentioned. He asked, "Where's James?"

Lon and Clemmie Monahan glanced at each other before Lon answered, "We ain't sure, exactly. It's best that we don't know."

Clemmie said, "The conscript officers came lookin' for him. He had to slip away in the middle of the night. Wasn't nothin' else he could do. He didn't want to go to war against the union."

The conscript law had put many young men on the run, some who had unionist leanings and some who simply did not want to be drafted into the Confederate army. By Richmond law it had become part of the ranger mission to find and bring in conscript dodgers, though Whitfield's company had exerted itself but little in that direction. Many of the rangers might have joined the fugitives had their frontier service so far not exempted them from military service.

Rusty said, "I thought you-all made up your minds to stay here no matter what."

Lon said, "The sons of bitches was fixin' to take James away. He didn't have no choice."

Clemmie fretted, "I'm afraid Billy's next. He's sixteen. Another year or so and he'll be of age."

Rusty knew that some boys as young as fifteen and sixteen were serving, though to his knowledge it was by their own choice. He felt a surge of bitterness. "I don't know who wanted that stupid war in the first place. They sure didn't ask me what I thought."

Lon stared down at a knotty fist. "In a way, I reckon they asked all of us. Texas called a vote on secession. A majority said yes."

"But they didn't ask for war."

"I'm afraid both camps was itchin' for it. I can't fault one side more than the other, but us Monahans have always stood for the union."

"In spite of it drivin' your son away?"

"He'll be back. When this war burns itself out, people'll come to their senses, most of them. As for the rest, the hell with them."

Clemmie said, "Right now we've got a different fight on our hands. Let's quit talkin' and carry Rusty into the house. We'll take off the dirty wrappin' and see what that limb looks like."

Rusty felt a small, warm hand slip into his. Looking up, he saw Geneva's worried eyes. "Don't you fret, Rusty. We'll take care of you."

He felt better already, a little.

Removal of the binding agitated the wound. Geneva had to soak the final pair of wraps because dried blood had stuck the cloth to the skin. Rusty sucked a sharp breath beneath his teeth as the binding was pulled free.

He did not look down. He did not have to, for the grim reaction of the women told him more than he wanted to know. Clemmie demanded, "What did they burn you with, a brandin' iron?"

"A knife. Said they had to cauterize the wound."

"Roasted it, more like. But maybe they saved you from gangrene."

A dark fear had lurked in the back of Rusty's mind almost from the first. He had not permitted it to rise all the way to the surface. When no one volunteered further comment, he asked the question in a shaky voice. "You reckon I'm fixin' to lose my leg?"

Clemmie managed an answer. "Not without we give it a hard fight. I'll be glad when Preacher Webb gets here."

"I doubt he can doctor it any better than you can."

"But he's got more say with the Almighty."

They lighted a lantern and hung it on the porch in case Webb should arrive in the night. It could as easily guide marauding Indians, but nobody mentioned the risk. Rusty had just dropped off into a fitful sleep when he heard a commotion on the dog run. The door swung open, and Webb entered, removing his flop-brimmed old hat and pitching it against a wall. He did not break his stride until he reached the cot where Rusty lay in the cabin's kitchen.

Clemmie's father, Vince Purdy, followed Webb. He looked small and wizened and tired.

Clemmie explained, "We cleaned the wound the best we could and put on fresh bandagin'."

Webb placed his hand on Rusty's forehead, checking for fever. He turned back the blanket and touched the bandage but withdrew his hand without untying the knot that held it. "We'll leave well enough alone 'til mornin'. Since the Lord hasn't taken you already, maybe He's not got a place fixed for you yet."

Rusty said, "If there
is
a Lord, I was lookin' him square in the eye. The Comanche who put the arrow in my leg was tryin' to put it in my heart."

"God has saved you for other work."

"I had my front sight leveled against another Indian. You think the Lord saved him, too?"

"The Indians are His creatures, same as we are. Maybe He has other work for that one, too."

Rusty was inclined to believe that his nervous horse was the cause for both misses, but he did not feel like arguing religion with Webb at this time of night. "It's awful good to see you, Preacher."

"And you. I'm glad you've managed to stay out of trouble, at least 'til your scrap with the Indians."

Rusty understood the reference. "I don't suppose Isaac York has drunk himself to death yet?"

"No, but he's tried." Webb frowned. "You've been away more than a year. I'd hoped you'd forgotten about Isaac."

"I can't forget him. Every time I think of Daddy Mike, I see Isaac York, too. I will until he dies, or I do."

"Leave him to heaven, Rusty."

"Or to hell."

* * *

Rusty forced himself to look at the leg when Webb unwrapped it the next morning. It was swollen, the color running from red to blue, but at least he saw nothing to indicate the onset of gangrene. Crusting had begun along the edges where Tanner's knife had seared the wound. He thought it smelled a bit too, but that could have been something Clemmie had applied to it last night.

Anxiously he asked, "What do you think, Preacher?"

"There are better things to do than burn it, but I suppose there was little choice out in the field. I'm afraid the burn will leave a bigger scar than the arrow would have."

"A scar won't bother me much if I've still got a leg."

"It'll take awhile, but I think you'll heal. The main thing to worry us now is blood poisonin'. About the only thing we can do on that is to pray."

Geneva stood beside the minister, hope in her eyes where there had been dark worry last night. "We'll all do that, Preacher."

Webb looked at her as if something about her surprised him. He turned back to Rusty. "That should help as much as any medicine we can give him. I'm not sure Rusty knows how to pray for himself."

Geneva said, "I'll teach him."

Webb smiled.

* * *

Rusty spent most of his time lying on the cot the first couple of days, for the pain from the wound reached its peak, and he was too weak to want to move much. After that he became increasingly restless, wanting to be up and doing something. The Monahan family was busy from early morning until dusk, harvesting their feed crop and picking their cotton, which would have to be hauled eastward a long way for ginning. Rusty felt guilt about requiring their attention and eating their food while performing no service in return, especially after Preacher Webb left to attend to his circuit.

Once Rusty was able to sit up for long periods, he insisted that they bring him work to do: harness he could mend, tools he could sharpen. He constructed a crude but workable crutch from a forked branch of oak that Billy brought him. He shaved off the bark and padded the top so it would not rub his arm raw. Though he moved awkwardly, the crutch enabled him to get around the house and the barn. The guilt and the feeling of uselessness left him.

One day Geneva brought him a cup of coffee at the barn, where he was grinding a new edge onto a scythe. "Maybe I can get back to the company before long," he told her.

He heard regret in her voice. "Are you in such a hurry to leave us?"

"No, but I feel like it's my duty to go soon as I'm able to ride. Every day I'm gone, others have got to make up for me. The company's shorthanded."

"What if you'd been killed? They'd've had to find somebody else. Let them find somebody else now."

He said, "There's another consideration besides duty." He had not put the thought into words before, though it had come to him often enough. "Long as I stay in the frontier company, the conscript officers have to leave me alone. But if I quit it, they'll be comin' after me. Then I'll have to go fight the union or I'll have to leave the country like James did. Either way, I couldn't stay here."

"They won't take you 'til that leg heals. Maybe the war'll be over by then."

"Sounds to me like it's barely got started."

Tears welled in her eyes. "First it was James. Now we've got you and Billy to worry about. It's not fair, a bunch of old men startin' a war and makin' the young men go and fight it." She leaned against him and touched his hand. He set down the coffee cup, and she turned into his arms.

It was the first time he had held her. He felt warm and happy and greatly confused. He had never held a girl this way before.

She said, "Don't be in a big hurry about gettin' well."

His crutch slid to the barn's earthen floor. He would have to turn her loose to stoop and pick it up. He let it lie.

* * *

Another day, Rusty was leaning on his crutch, brushing Alamo's mane, when Colonel Caleb Dawkins rode up accompanied by half a dozen men. Rusty blinked in momentary disbelief, for he recognized two of them. One was Dawkins's son Pete, who had wanted to kill Rusty the day he had encountered the thieves with the Tonkawa horses. Beside Pete was the point rider who had decided against it.

Dawkins was surprised to find Rusty there. "Don't you belong in the ranger camp up by Belknap?" he demanded, as if it were his right to know and approve or disapprove.

Rusty stiffened at the challenge in the voice. "I do."

"Then why are you here?"

"Recuperatin'. Had a little run-in with some Comanches, and they came out with the best of it."

"You could have chosen a better place for healing. Don't you know this place is a nest of unionists?"

"They're friends of mine. "Their politics don't matter to me."

"'They should. You are sworn to uphold the laws of the state of Texas. You should be more careful about the company you keep."

Rusty found a bit of unintended humor in that comment. He studied the young horse thieves, particularly Pete. "That'd be good advice for a lot of people."

Dawkins straightened his shoulders in an attitude of authority. "We are here representing the conscription committee. As a ranger, I expect you to speak the truth."

"I always do, or pretty close to it."

"The committee has declared James Monahan a fugitive. Have you seen him?"

Rusty saw no reason to lie, though he would have had there been a reason. He owed nothing to Dawkins. "I haven't seen him since I came here."

"Do you know where he has gone?"