[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (28 page)

Rusty reached out for Purdy's hand. "I owe you, Mr. Purdy. James would've just left me out there."

"We raised him better than that, in spite of the way he talks. At least now he's goin' someplace that there won't be no conscript officers, no hangin' parties, no fanatics like Caleb Dawkins."

"Don't ever tell me where. I don't want to know."

"You may need to go there yourself someday. The way I've heard you talk, you've got union leanin's of your own."

"I don't noise them about."

Purdy handed the driver Rusty's unloaded pistol and backed his horse away from the wagon. He said, "Give this to him when you get him there. And tell them rangers to take good care of this young feller. He's a right decent sort."

The last Rusty saw of him, Purdy was headed south.

The driver held his questions as long as he could. "He says you belong at the ranger camp. I don't like mixin' into law business. You ain't an escaped prisoner, are you?"

"I'm a ranger, or what's left of one ... if they haven't fired me for bein' gone too long."

"I'd best take you to the camp before we go into town. There's some folks in Belknap that ain't fond of the law. Feel like it messes in their business too much."

"Some business needs messin' in."

"I heard him say you've got union leanin's."

"My father fought in Mexico for the union flag."

"Well, it don't mean nothin' to me one way or the other. Washington is a long ways off from here, and Richmond ain't much closer. I make a livin'. What happens somewhere else is other folks' business."

Rusty looked at the black man. "They claim the union wants to take away everybody's slaves."

The driver shrugged. "Don't mean nothin' to me. Ol' Mose here, he's a free nigger. Saved up and bought himself, he did. They can't free him if he don't belong to nobody noway. Eh, Mose?"

"God's truth," the black man said.

The wagon hit a rut, and Rusty had to grab a sideboard to keep from being jostled off. "These crates are awful hard. What you got in them?"

The driver thought a minute. "You askin' as a ranger?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"I oughtn't to tell you, but there's whiskey in them crates, bound for a dram house in Belknap. That's all I know and all I want to know. But if I was a suspicionin' man, I'd be inclined to think some of this whiskey is meant to be taken up into the territory and traded to the Indians."

"Knowin' that, you'd still deliver it?"

"If I didn't do it, somebody else would. I've got to make a livin'. Me and Mose, we've sort of got used to eatin' every day whether we need to or not."

The tent camp looked the same as the last time Rusty had seen it. The driver halted the wagon and motioned for Mose to help Rusty to the ground. "This is as far as I dast take you without gettin' me in bad with some of the boys in town."

"I'm much obliged." The leg hurt as Rusty climbed down, using the left front wheel as a ladder of sorts. It almost buckled when he reached the ground. Mose's strong hands steadied him. The black man untied Alamo from the rear of the wagon and handed the reins to Rusty. He also gave him his pistol.

The driver said, "If you see us in town, just act like we're strangers."

They just about were. Rusty never had learned the driver's name, and all he knew about Mose was his name and that he was a free black. He knew also that some of the crates contained whiskey, not illegal in Texas but a violation of union law in Indian Territory. Liquor smuggling was of interest to Texans when it encouraged Indian raids south of the river. Under present conditions of war, neither union nor Confederacy was in a position to make a strong effort against the whiskey trade.

Rusty watched the wagon pull away, then limped toward the corrals, leading Alamo. He wished he had not thrown away the cane. He would whittle a new one to use until the leg was stronger.

Tanner was at the corral, brushing a horse. Surprised at seeing Rusty, he strode out on his long, lanky legs to open the gate. "Looks to me like you rushed things a little. Leg's still botherin' you, ain't it?"

"Got tired of sittin' around doin' nothin'." Rusty unbuckled the girth and slid the saddle to the ground.

Tanner said, "You ain't missed anything here. We've rode a million miles since you been gone, and we ain't seen an Indian, hardly. Things sure been quiet."

"Been dull where I was, too." He did not feel like getting into a long discussion. He would save that for the captain.

"A few of the boys got tired of the routine and joined up with the army. Conscripters've been here, too. So far they're leavin' us alone long as we stay on guard with the company. The minute we leave, they'll be lookin' for us to go fight Old Abe."

"I've got no intention of leavin'." However, much depended upon the captain's reaction when Rusty told him about the shooting of Caleb Dawkins and James's escape from his custody. Losing a prisoner was serious business.

"Looks like the folks you stayed with fed you pretty good. Things got so bad on scout awhile back that I had to skin and eat a prairie dog."

"How was it?"

"You don't want any."

Rusty saw to it that Alamo had a little grain in a pen by himself where the other horses could not contest him for it. He squared his shoulders. "I'd better go and report in."

"We're shorthanded. The captain'll be tickled to see you."

Maybe not when I tell him everything
, Rusty thought.

Captain Whitfield sat at a table, writing. He looked up as Rusty entered the tent. "Shannon. Saw you come in on a wagon. Can't you ride yet?"

"I can, some. Just can't overdo it."

"Then what're you doin' here? You could've stayed longer where you were at."

"Felt like I'd better report to you, sir." Reluctantly Rusty told him everything. He was tempted to leave out the part about taking James prisoner, then losing him, but a deliberate omission would seem the same as an outright lie.

The captain frowned. "So you had him, then lost him."

"I was hurtin' so bad I couldn't see straight. He had my pistol before I knew it."

"Do you know where he went?"

"The last I saw of him, he was headin' west. He couldn't keep up that direction too long, though. He'd be apt to run into Comanches when he got to the plains."

"Probably dropped south once he felt he was in the clear. There's a lot of conscript dodgers hidin' out on the far Colorado and the Brazos and the Conchos. Some of them've been slippin' back into the settlements and stealin' supplies, takin' horses and whatever else comes to hand. As bad as the Indians except they haven't scalped anybody we know of."

"I don't see James Monahan bein' a thief."

"Just a murderer is all?" Sarcasm coarsened the captain's voice.

"He felt like he was justified. Caleb Dawkins hung his daddy and his brother."

"The law would've taken care of Colonel Dawkins the first time it could prove somethin' on him. At least it looks like your James Monahan has saved the state of Texas the cost of that trial, but it'll still be out the cost of his own."

"It'll have to catch him first."

"It will sooner or later. Or kill him." He dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. "It appears to me that you'd best stay around camp until that leg will let you ride the line. You can find plenty to do on foot."

Rusty was relieved that the captain was not summarily dismissing him. "Yes, sir." He felt that a salute was in order, but he had never been taught the proper way to give one. He made the effort, knowing it fell short of being soldierly.

Whitfield called to him as he was about to leave the tent. "Shannon, are you sure you didn't let your guard down on purpose, out of friendship?"

Rusty thought about it. "I don't think so." Now that the question had been posed, he could not be sure. Perhaps subconsciously he had wanted James to get away and had provided the opportunity without admitting to himself what he was doing. "I couldn't swear to it on the Bible."

"Thanks for an honest answer. Not everybody gives me one." Whitfield waved him away.

Rusty was troubled a little now that the suspicion had been aroused. After all Mike Shannon had preached to him about duty, it was possible he had compromised himself.

Tanner came up from the corrals to meet him. "You look like you're cloudin' up to rain. Catch hell from the captain?"

"No. I'm catchin' a little hell from myself."

* * *

He spent the next few days doing chores around camp, raking out the corrals, pitching hay, helping with the cooking. He even shod several horses, a job he would have expected to be particularly hard on the weakened leg. He was gratified to find that the leg was stronger day by day. It was coming back to normal, though the wound was leaving a frightful-looking mark. He had heard that Indians took pride in their scars, sometimes outlining them with paint to make them more noticeable. His was private, to remain forever concealed by the leg of his trousers.

Any damned fool could get himself wounded. The real object in a fight was to win
without
getting wounded, or worse.

Because of the frequent comings and goings of strangers, he paid little attention to a buggy pulling up to the captain's tent, accompanied by several men on horseback. He was currying a horse when an adjutant came into the corral. "Shannon, the captain wants to see you."

Rusty brushed off some of the dirt and horsehair from his clothing and followed the adjutant to the center of camp. He asked no questions. He had found that when the captain wanted the men to know something, he told them.

A broad-shouldered man sat on a chair facing the captain. His back was turned to Rusty.

Whitfield said, "This is Private Shannon."

The big man turned. Rusty's stomach seemed to sink to his feet.

Caleb Dawkins.

Dawkins was pale and seemed to have lost some weight. He pointed his heavy chin at Rusty. "That is the man, captain. Indeed it is. I saw him enter the room just before I was shot."

Rusty was speechless, his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. His hands shook a little.

The captain said, "Shannon is not the man who shot you."

"No, but he was an accomplice."

Rusty began to find his voice. "I wasn't. I went there to try and stop it."

Whitfield said, "Private Shannon told me he took the culprit prisoner but due to disability was unable to hold him."

Rusty took comfort in the tone of the captain's voice. Evidently Whitfield believed him if Dawkins did not. "I've told the truth, sir."

Dawkins said, "You ran off and left me for dead."

Whitfield said, "Private Shannon was of the opinion that you were dead. He left in pursuit of the man who shot you."

"That man was a Monahan, and Shannon has been thick with the Monahans all along. Are you aware, Captain, that they are union sympathizers? I suspect Private Shannon is, as well."

"We do not inquire into our men's politics. Our only interest is in their ability and willingness to face the Indians, and whatever other assignment we give them."

"You have a duty to run down fugitives from conscription."

"When we have time. The Indians are our main concern, and we are spread very thin."

"Then I shall take my case to the governor. We will see what he thinks about officers who shirk their duty and let murderers go free."

The captain's face colored. "You are free to take your case anywhere you wish, Colonel Dawkins. To hell, if that be your choice."

"I see I will get no justice here. Willingham, please help me to my feet." One of Dawkins's men lifted the big man from his chair. Dawkins trembled from the exertion. Clearly, the wound had weakened him considerably. Dawkins raised his hand to his side, his face twisting in pain. Rusty could not see why the bullet had not killed him. He guessed that James had fired in haste, without taking proper aim.

Dawkins said, "I strongly suspect, Whitfield, that your company is harboring men whose loyalties are open to question. I believe Shannon is a unionist, and it stands to reason that some of his fellows are as well. The governor will receive a full report from me, you may rest assured of that."

The captain struggled to control his anger. "Will you be equally eager to report to him that you have taken it upon yourself to hang men you believe are disloyal?"

"You should he careful in making charges you cannot prove."

"And you as well, Colonel."

Rusty stepped aside to allow Dawkins to pass, aided by the man he called Willingham. He felt conflicting emotions, on the one hand relieved that James had not become a murderer after all, and on the other a wish that he had been a better shot. It was unlikely that Dawkins would rest until either he or James was dead. Granted a wish, Dawkins would probably choose to see Rusty and James buried together.

The captain said, "Stay a minute, Shannon." He waited until the sound of horses and squeaking harness told him Dawkins was leaving. "You know, I suppose, that Caleb Dawkins has marked a target on your back. He will be pleased to put a bullet in your chest or a rope around your neck."

"He's a hopeless zealot."

"It's zealots who've brought about this war. Good men can be as dangerous as bad men when they let passion turn them into fanatics. You should be careful not to leave this camp alone. Have other rangers with you wherever you go."

"That's almost the same as runnin' away."

"There's no disgrace in runnin' when the odds are dead set against you. You live, and you fight another day."

"I guess so, but I don't like the feelin'." Another concern came to him. "Am I liable to bring trouble down on you and this company, Captain?"

"Trouble is what we're here for. We can handle it."

"In case the Monahan family doesn't already know, I'd better go warn them that Dawkins is still alive. He might take it in his head to revenge himself on them."

"You stay close. There's nothin' he'd like better than to catch you off by yourself. I'll send Tanner to warn the Monahans."

That brought some comfort, though not enough. "He knows how to find the place."