[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (26 page)

The old man eased up to the sheriff's side. He reached out stealthily, then grabbed the pistol from the lawman's holster. Before anyone could react, he pointed it at Dawkins's back.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber. The sheriff grunted as he wrested the pistol from Purdy's knotty hand. His angry voice crackled. "That was a fool thing to do."

The old man began to weep. "He killed my grandson."

Clemmie put her arms around her father. The sheriff looked at the pair, anger subsiding, sympathy taking its place. "Dawkins didn't see you do that, and I'll try to forget it myself. But don't ever pull such a stunt again. It could get you killed."

Purdy's voice was barely audible. "It'd be worth it if I could take Dawkins with me."

Clemmie Monahan said, "Thank you, Sheriff. We appreciate you standin' up for us."

"I'm just tryin' to stay in the middle ground."

Preacher Webb said, "That can be the most dangerous place of all. People shoot at you from both sides."

Clemmie had talked little all day, trying to keep her emotions under tight control. Now she turned to Rusty. "You're a ranger. Can't you do somethin'?"

Geneva protested, "Mother, Rusty's crippled up ... can't even ride yet."

Reluctantly Rusty said, "Your mother's right. Somethin' has got to be done. Trouble is, I don't know what I can do."

In his time with the rangers he had never acted alone. He had always ridden with others and followed the orders of superiors. He wished for that guidance now. "If I arrested Dawkins, I'd have to turn him over to the local authorities. No local court'll convict him, not with times bein' like they are.

The sheriff nodded agreement. "That's the sad facts, Mrs. Monahan. The court would say that all he did was kill a unionist and a young man runnin' away from conscription. Dawkins may be called on to pay at the Pearly Gates, but not in Confederate Texas."

Rusty looked to Webb for advice. The minister had no answers. He supposed there were no answers.

The sheriff nodded at his deputy. "We're done here. Let's be goin'."

Webb said, "I'm glad you stood up to Dawkins, Sheriff, but you've probably made an enemy of him."

"He's not liable to forget you either. Even though you're a man of the cloth, he'll figure you've taken sides."

"My side was chosen for me when I saw Lon and Billy in their coffins."

The sheriff faced Clemmie. "After all this, are you sure you want to stay here?"

"More than ever. What's Dawkins goin' to do, hang women and children and an old man?"

"Since he's gotten away with this, I'm afraid he'll think he can get away with anything. Maybe not kill you, but he could shoot your livestock, burn you out ..."

"He'd better not try. I'd kill him myself."

Geneva put her arm around her mother's shoulder. "This is our home. Caleb Dawkins be damned."

The sheriff regarded them glumly. "I wish I'd stayed in Harris County." He got on his horse and rode off into the dusk, his deputy spurring to catch up.

* * *

Preacher Webb did not leave immediately. Rusty assumed he wanted to help the family endure its grief and begin the healing process. Webb periodically stopped whatever he was doing and looked off into the distance as if expecting something. Rusty assumed he was watching for Caleb Dawkins to return.

"Preacher, you don't need to worry. If he comes lookin' for trouble. I'll see that he gets it."

"That's one thing I
am
worried about." Webb looked down at Rusty's leg. "You're bendin' it a lot better. I believe you'll he able to ride soon."

"You're tryin' to get me away from here and back to my company, aren't you?"

"Just as quick as I can."

"All right, we'll see. Would you please catch and saddle Alamo for me?"

The horse had not been ridden since the day of the Indian fight. He had been enjoying his freedom from work, and he made a little game of eluding Webb until the minister hemmed him in a corral corner. "Now," Webb said softly, "don't you tempt me into language I'll have to beg forgiveness for."

Once caught, Alamo was tractable enough. Rusty held the bridle reins while Webb put the blanket and saddle on. He breathed into the horse's nostrils to remind the animal who he was, in case Alamo was forgetful. He did not have an exaggerated opinion of equine intelligence. He had seen good horses lose all their training after ranging awhile with a reprobate, or even in solitude.

Handing Webb the cane, Rusty gingerly raised his left foot to the stirrup and swung the wounded leg over the saddle. A sharp stab of pain told him he was rushing things a little. He managed to put the right foot into the stirrup, but the leg hurt enough to make him wince. He removed the foot from the stirrup. That eased the pain but did not stop it. He felt cold sweat breaking out and shook his head.

"Maybe tomorrow." He dismounted carefully and rubbed the leg in an effort to stop the throbbing that had begun anew.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you."

In his concentration on trying to ride, Rusty had not noticed that Geneva had walked down to the corral. She watched, troubled. While Webb unsaddled Alamo, Rusty made his way to the fence where she stood. He found himself leaning a bit heavier on the cane.

Anxiously Geneva asked, "You're liable to lame yourself for good, pushin' too fast. Are you so anxious to leave us?"

"No, but Preacher Webb wants me to go as soon as I'm able. He's afraid Colonel Dawkins may cause me trouble."

"Looks to me like you've hurt your leg all over again."

"Irritated it a little, is all. But I've got to keep tryin'. Can't laze around forever, bein' a burden."

"You're no burden. It's been a comfort havin' you here, especially after ..." She looked away. "Preacher Webb is right, though. Dawkins will hate anybody who helps us. No tellin' what he might do."

"I doubt he'd take action against a ranger. He'd bring the state of Texas down on his head."

"Not if nobody could prove he'd done it, like we can't prove what he did to Pa and Billy."

* * *

The second day's effort at riding went better than the first, though it soon set the leg to throbbing again. Rusty had to dismount. He knew he could not make the long ride up to Belknap and the ranger camp on horseback, not yet. He could probably persuade someone to take him in a wagon, but he was not in a hurry about leaving. Maybe in another couple of days.

He made himself as useful as his physical limitations allowed. Preacher Webb joined the Monahan family in the field, picking cotton, cutting feed with a scythe. Rusty kept the tools sharp. Though he felt awkward and out of place, he helped around the kitchen so the women could remain longer at the outdoor chores he could not do.

Often Webb paused in his work and let his gaze search the western horizon. At first Rusty assumed he was worrying about getting back to his circuit. Then he realized the minister was watching for something. Rusty asked him once what he was looking for and received an evasive answer. He did not ask again, but he suspected he knew. Somehow the family had sent word to James.

The thought was troubling, for James's appearance would force Rusty into a painful choice.

"Preacher," he said when he had a chance to speak to Webb alone, "I'm not askin' you to tell me anything you don't want to, but what can I do if James shows up? I'm supposed to arrest him. But the Monahan family took me in, and I don't want to be puttin' James in jail."

Webb pondered. "I didn't figure on your leg bein' so slow to heal. I hoped you'd he able to go back to Belknap sooner."

Rusty took that as affirmation. "So you do expect James to come back?"

"You would, if you were him."

"As fast as I could get here. But I'm not him, I'm me. So I'll keep Alamo in the pen tonight and start for Belknap first thing in the mornin'."

"Your leg still looks angry. Do you think you can ride that far?"

"I'll make a two-day trip of it, and rest along the way."

"I'll pray that James doesn't get here tonight."

The prayer was in vain. Rusty had not been asleep long when he awoke to the sound of voices from the cabin. After the first couple of nights on a cot in the kitchen, he had taken to sleeping in a shed to be out of the way. He laid his blankets aside and reached for his trousers.

A dark figure appeared in the doorway. "Are you awake?" The voice was Webb's. "Stay where you're at. What you don't see, you can't bear witness to."

Rusty knew. "James."

Webb's silence told him enough.

The autumn night air carried a chill. Rusty pulled the blanket around his shoulders. He had an uneasy feeling. "I ain't seen them, but I have a notion Caleb Dawkins or his bunch have been watchin' this place off and on."

"It's the dark of the moon, and James is careful."

"He'd better be gone long before daylight."

"I've already told him that."

Webb left, and Rusty drifted off into a restless half sleep. He was awakened by a quarrel in the cabin. The voices were loud in disagreement, though he could not hear the words. Later he heard a horse moving. He made it a point not to look, but he assumed the horse was James's. He felt relieved that James was leaving and Rusty could truthfully say, in the event he was asked, that he had not seen him. Soon, however, he realized the horse was traveling eastward, not to the west, where James should be going. The thought disturbed him. He threw the blankets aside and reached for his clothes.

As he pulled his boots on, an agitated Preacher Webb appeared in the doorway. "I should have known it would happen," he said.

"What's happened?"

"James has gone to get Caleb Dawkins."

"Dawkins has it comin' to him."

"Violence begets more violence, 'til there's no stoppin' place. I preached that to you when you wanted to kill Isaac York."

"Sometimes I still wish I'd done it. Where does Clemmie stand?"

"She didn't try to talk him out of it. She'd like to spit on Dawkins in his coffin."

"Can't say I'd blame her any."

"But James won't just be a fugitive from conscription. He'll he runnin' from a murder. Sooner or later somebody will kill
him
. Vince and Geneva did their best, and so did I, but James wouldn't listen to us."

Rusty felt an itching along his backside, an urge to be moving. "I should've seen James after all. Worst come to worst, I could've arrested him."

"He wouldn't have let you. You'd have had to shoot him. There wouldn't have been much point."

Rusty looked around the dark shed for his hat. "Maybe I can still find some way to stop him. Would you help me saddle my horse?"

"What'll you do?"

"Try to get to Dawkins before James does."

"But you wouldn't know where to find him."

Vince Purdy shuffled into the shed, shoulders slack, his voice grave. "I know where he'll be at. I'll show you the way."

Any doubts Rusty had about taking the old man along were quickly shunted aside by the fact that he couldn't find the Dawkins place by himself, certainly not in time to help. He picked up his cane, then pitched it atop the cot. If he could ride a horse he should not need a cane. It might just be in his way.

Though only Alamo was in the pen, several other horses stood around outside the gate, waiting for their morning feed. Purdy caught one while Rusty struggled to lift his saddle to Alamo's back. The weight bore heavily on his weak leg. Webb helped him finish saddling, then gave him a boost onto the horse's back. Rusty grunted involuntarily. The leg ached from the exertion.

"The Lord ride with you," Webb said.

"He'd do better to ride with James, and slow him down."

Geneva was there as Rusty rode Alamo out the gate. She reached up to squeeze his hand. Her voice seemed about to break. "James is not the only one at risk in this. You are, too. Be careful, Rusty."

On an impulse too strong to resist, he leaned down and put his arms around her. Urgently he kissed her on the lips, holding the kiss until he felt his lungs would burst.

"I'll be back," he said.

Striking a trot, then a lope, Purdy pointed the way across country rather than follow the winding wagon road.

Purdy worried, "If James gets there before us, I don't know what we can do."

Rusty confessed, "I don't know what we'll do if
we
get there first. But we'll do somethin' even if it's wrong."

Nothing would be without risk. If he arrested James, he would not only alienate the Monahan family but would put James in jeopardy of being dragged out of jail and lynched by the Dawkins faction. At the least, such a move would result in James's being taken by the conscription officers and forced into Confederate service. Rusty could simply warn Dawkins, but that would probably result in getting James waylaid and killed.

Mike Shannon had once told him to have confidence in himself, that he would know the right thing to do when the time came.

He wished Daddy Mike could whisper in his ear now.

* * *

The Dawkins farm was quiet. The thin moon shed but little light on it, and the eastern horizon showed no hint of sunup. He saw the dim glow of a lamp in the window of a small log structure, evidently a bunkhouse, and another in the larger house, where he assumed Dawkins lived. A milk-pen calf bawled for its mother. Rusty figured a hired hand was milking, for a lighted lantern was suspended from the rafter of a low shed nearby.

He said, "I wish we could get to Dawkins without stirrin' up everybody on the place." It had been on his mind that he might arrest the man and sneak him away before James arrived. It would be difficult to do without the colonel raising unholy hell and rousing everybody within hearing.

Purdy suggested, "We can circle around his house and slip in through the back door."

A lot of small houses in this part of the country had no back door, but Dawkins's was of a size that would surely have a second way in and out. Rusty hoped it would not he barred. Hardly anyone had locks on doors, though most had provisions for barring the way in event of an Indian raid. A normal lock would pose little difficulty for a determined Comanche.