[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (25 page)

Rusty had heard of mass hangings at Gainesville, farther east, where rumors of a unionist uprising had aroused hysteria. "Looks like the world's gone crazy."

"I'm thinkin' it was a short trip." After a long silence Smith said, "I'm beholden to y

"The law? He just murdered a man and a boy."

"Law and order accordin' to his beliefs. He's got a fire-and-brimstone way of lookin' at things, but he's an honest man, after his own fashion."

"He's a mad dog. Does he know what his son Pete has been up to?

"God no. Fanatic as he is, he might hang Pete, too."

Twice Smith thought he had found the place, only to be mistaken. Rusty was about to despair of finding the Monahans before daylight. Then Smith said, "Light your lantern again. I think this is where they're at."

It was. Rusty had held to a faint hope that somehow Dawkins might have bungled the job, that one or both Monahans might still be alive. He raised the lantern and saw that the hope had been in vain.

The old man wheezed, "God help them."

Rusty wished Preacher Webb were here. He would be a comfort to the women, though it was too late for either him or God to help Lon and Billy Monahan. "I'm afraid God was lookin' somewhere else." He drew the wagon up under the bodies. "Grab ahold," he told Smith, "while I cut them down."

Smith was queasy about the task, taking a moment to summon the stomach for it. Leaning heavily on the crutch so it would not slip from under him, Rusty managed to slice through the ropes. Smith and Vince Purdy gently laid the pair onto the bed of the wagon. Rusty tried not to look at the dead faces, but he was compelled by a force he could not resist. Lon Monahan's eyes were half open. Clemmie's father closed them.

The old man broke down, kneeling beside his grandson, taking one still hand in both of his own. "He wasn't nothin' but a boy. How could any just man do such a thing as this?"

Smith said, "He's got a hard view of justice. It don't allow no extra room. He'd hang Jesus Christ if he thought he was in the wrong."

Rusty repeated something Lon had said once: "God save us from zealots." Caleb Dawkins was such a man, like Isaac York back home. Worse, perhaps, because York acted in the passion of the moment. Dawkins was cold and calculating.

Purdy spread a blanket over the bodies and blew out the lantern. His voice quavered. "I dread for Clemmie to see this. It'll nigh kill her."

Smith said, "I already been a witness to too much tonight. I'm fixin' to put as much ground under me as I can before the colonel changes his mind. Like as not he'll send after me."

Rusty asked, "Where'll you go?"

"West. There's a heap of rough country out yonder where no ranger or conscript officer is apt to come pokin' around. I'll find me a deep hole and wait for this god-awful war to finish."

"Watch out for Indians. They won't care whether you're from north or south, long as you're white. Especially if they catch you lookin' at their horses."

After Smith left, Purdy said, "First thing come daylight, I'll see if the neighbors can get word to Preacher Webb. At least we can see that Lon and Billy get a decent buryin'."

Rusty said, "I'll go tell the sheriff. He needs to know what's happened here."

Purdy's voice was bitter. "Ain't much the sheriff can do about it. The times favor the likes of Caleb Dawkins, not the Monahans."

* * *

Rusty traveled in the wagon, for his leg would not yet permit him to ride a horse. Halfway to town he met the sheriff and his deputy. The lawman's expression was dark and forbidding. "It's rumored this mornin' that somebody killed Lon Monahan."

Rusty's anger quickly rekindled. "Not just somebody. It was Caleb Dawkins. And not just Lon but his boy Billy, too. Taken out and hung like dogs."

The lawman grimaced. "This stupid war ... how can you he sure it was the colonel? Did you see him?"

"No, but I talked to somebody who was with him." He repeated what Smith had said.

"Smith!" The sheriff spat the word. "The country's fillin' up with men named Smith, and most of them are lookin' back to see who's comin' behind them." Clearly, he would rather have been somewhere else. "I'll need to talk to this Smith myself. Is he still at the Monahan place?"

"No, he was afraid of what Dawkins might do if he stayed around. Said he was leavin' and not comin' back."

"I wish they'd all go, somewhere a long ways from here."

The sheriff stared at the horizon. "Ain't likely the colonel will admit anything. Not to where it would mean somethin' in court."

"But it was him. Smith told us so."

"You didn't see the hangin' yourself?"

"It was over with before me and Mr. Purdy got there. Everybody was gone except Smith."

"Unless somebody who was there is willin' to bear witness, you're huntin' bear with a switch. You've got no case."

"As a sheriff, you're supposed to do somethin'."

"I'm not a judge. All I can do is make an arrest."

"As a ranger, I could do that, too."

"But whoever you arrested, you'd have to turn him over to the local law, and that's me. Whatever happens after that is up to the court. You know what a court'll say."

Frustration burned like lye in Rusty's stomach. "So there's nothin' to be done?"

"Someday there'll be an accountin'. Caleb Dawkins will stand in judgment like all of us and answer to a higher power than any Confederate court."

"That's liable to be a long time in comin'."

"You're young, and young people are impatient. I'm old enough to know that you've got to have patience. Most things eventually come to pass if the Almighty means them to."

Rusty clenched a fist, wishing he could hit somebody. But he realized the lawman was being realistic, walking a narrow line and looking at reality rather than what should be. Another time, under other circumstances, he might act differently.

Preacher Webb arrived late in the day. "Though devastated himself, he consoled the family the best he could.

Rusty grieved much as he had for Daddy Mike and Mother Dora. He told the minister, "I don't understand. There's good people on both sides in this war, and they all say God is with them."

"I'm afraid they haven't asked Him.'They wouldn't like his answer."

The subject was painful to Webb, for he quickly changed it. "I see you've put the crutch aside for a cane. Your leg must be better."

"Still itches somethin' awful. Must mean it's healin'."

"Then I suppose you've thought about gettin' back to the ranger company." Webb sounded hopeful.

"Soon as I can get on a horse by myself. But I hate to leave here when the Monahans have got so much to worry about. Nice words seem empty. What's needed is a good killin'."

The minister's face revealed his misgivings. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. You were sent away from home because you talked about killin'. If you talk enough about it, sooner or later you may actually do it."

"I believe I'd be justified."

"All the more reason to rejoin your company as soon as you can."

* * *

Rusty counted the neighbors who began showing up for the burying, a-horseback and in wagons and buggies. Aside from family, they numbered only a few more than a dozen. He understood the reasons. Many of the Monahans' friends had fallen away from them once the war began, for most favored the Confederacy. Fear was another factor. The hanging here, like the larger ones at Gainesville, had been a warning to any besides the Monahans who might have unionist leanings or even associate with people who did. Among the few who came, Rusty wondered if Dawkins might have sent a spy or two. He was a big man whose long, dark shadow reached even into the grave.

Webb was taken aback by Rusty's suggestion. He had not considered the possibility that an informer might carry word to Dawkins about those who attended the funeral. "The ones who've come are not easily intimidated. Some have family members in the Confederate service, so Dawkins can hardly charge them with disloyalty."

"Dawkins is a zealot. If he likes whiskey but you like beer, that makes you a traitor in his sight."

"Both sides have their share of blind fanatics. They're the kind who brought on this war."

Rusty said, "I've heard you pray for people to get well. Can't you pray for Dawkins to get sick? A heart seizure maybe, or at least a slobberin' fit."

""That would be a poor use of prayer, and certainly not pleasin' to the Lord."

"It'd please the hell out of me."

Those who came to the funeral avoided mentioning the way Lon and Billy had died. Any death was painful, but deaths from this brand of violence and hatred were especially hard to accept. When Preacher Webb stood over the grave and spoke of madness descending upon the land, Rusty saw several heads nod. He hoped Caleb Dawkins had planted a spy here. This would give him something to ponder.

The services over and the grave filled in, the visitors paid their respect to the Monahan women and children and began leaving. The sheriff and his deputy remained to the last, watching for possible trouble. There had been a worry, though slight, that Dawkins might send men to harass and throw fear into the mourners.

The lawman was looking for something else, too. He said, "I thought James Monahan might show up. I've got a warrant for his arrest."

Rusty was not surprised. "Word may not have gotten to him. There's no tellin' where he's at."

"I expect there's folks here who know exactly where he's at." The sheriff glanced toward Preacher Webb. "But I'm glad he didn't come. I'd be duty bound to take him in."

"I know how you feel."

"Do you? You're a ranger. If you see him, you have the same duty to arrest him."

Rusty had not allowed himself to think much about that. The notion was too disturbing.

Relieved that no problem had occurred, the sheriff said, "I didn't think even the colonel would be so eaten up with hate that he'd disrupt a funeral."

Rusty replied, "He hated enough to hang two men."

The younger Monahan girls had strayed off a little ways from the burial place, weeping together apart from the adults. They returned in a run, frightened. One shouted, "There's some men hidin' on the river."

The sheriff stiffened. "Where?"

The girl pointed. "Down yonder. One of them is on a big white horse."

Rusty limped out with the lawman. He could not see any men, but he saw the white horse the girl had mentioned, half hidden in underbrush. His first thought was that James had returned to watch from a safe distance as his father and brother were buried.

The sheriff thought otherwise. "Somebody's been spyin' on the funeral crowd. I see Colonel Dawkins's fine hand in this." He gave Rusty a quick look. "Where's your gun?"

"In the house."

"Good. Let it stay there. Been enough men died already." He jerked his head as a signal to his deputy.

Rusty hobbled along on the cane, trailing the two lawmen as rapidly as his sore leg would allow. Realizing they had been discovered, the men on the river emerged into the open. Rusty recognized Dawkins on the white horse, flanked by two riders he had seen before. One was his son Pete.

The sheriff said accusingly, "I thought you had more judgment than to come here, Colonel."

"I came only to observe. I did not intend to be seen."

"Then you ought to've rode a black horse. You've got no business on this place."

"I am a citizen, free to come and go as I choose."

"So were Lon Monahan and his boy."

"Lon Monahan was a traitor, and his son was fleeing conscription."

"You are not the court. You have no authority to hang anybody."

Dawkins gravely considered his answer. "Can you prove I hanged anyone?" When the sheriff did not reply, Dawkins added, "I thought not."

Rusty broke in, "One of your men told us you did it."

Dawkins eyed Rusty with contempt. "As I recall, you are supposed to be a peace officer. If you had been doing your duty, all this need not have happened."

The sheriff told Rusty, "I think you had better step back and let me attend to this."

"Attend to it, then. Arrest him for murder."

The lawman had already explained why that would do no good. He did not repeat himself.

Dawkins challenged Rusty. "You said one of my men told you. Who was he?"

"He said his name was Smith."

"Every scalawag and rascal in the country claims his name is Smith. I have no Smith in my employ."

Clemmie and Preacher Webb came down from the family burying ground, Clemmie's father and Geneva close behind. Rusty could see the two smaller girls huddled together near the new graves. Clemmie spoke in a voice trembling with anger. "Caleb Dawkins, if I'd seen it was you I'd've brought a gun, and that would've been the end of you."

Dawkins pretended he had not heard. He did not look at her.

Sternly the sheriff said, "Colonel, it'll be better for everybody if you turn around and leave here, now."

"That I intend to do. I do not wish to fight with women and children." He looked at Clemmie's father. "Or old men, so long as they sit in their rocking chairs and do not make trouble. But I suggest that it would benefit the community as well as themselves if the Monahan family would load their wagons and depart this country."

Clemmie Monahan moved forward in a cold fury. "This is our home, Caleb Dawkins. We built it from nothin', me and Lon and Papa and the kids. Before we leave it, we'll see you in hell."

Geneva stepped up beside her mother, silently adding emphasis to what Clemmie had said.

Old Vince Purdy joined her on the right. He said, "There ain't a rockin' chair on this place, Caleb, but there's guns. If you cone into range after this, we'll shoot you on sight and by God leave you for the hogs."

Rusty felt the hair bristle on his neck. By the tone of the old man's voice, he meant every word.

Dawkins's face masked any feeling he might have had. "Remember what they said, Sheriff. These are dangerous people."

The sheriff said, "You'll do well to remember it yourself."

Dawkins retreated into the dusk. He did not deign to look back, but the two men with him kept turning in the saddle, afraid.