[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (35 page)

He was not aware of dropping off to sleep. It was as if he drifted without effort from the conscious world to one in which dreams became reality. He saw around him a great mass of warriors and more horses than there were buffalo on the plains. He saw the white man's houses and felt the ground tremble as the invaders mounted a charge upon them. He saw the warriors' mouths open wide as they raised their voices in a grand cry for victory, yet there was no sound, only silence, only feeling.

It was a wondrous thing, but puzzling.

He saw himself on the ground and saw the Texan horsemen rushing down upon him, swarming like angry bees. But most passed on, disappearing into a haze. Only one remained. Buffalo Caller realized with a start that though this was a grown man, he had the face of the boy once captured, then lost. And his hair was red like blood.

Buffalo Caller awakened to a loud shout and realized the voice was his own. He was cold, yet sweating. He looked around him but saw little in the darkness except the sparkling of the stars above and a moon round and white and bright. He gathered the robe over his shoulders to stop his trembling. He wanted to grasp the dream and hold it in his hands for study to determine what it was meant to tell him. But dreams are elusive, and the details faded before his eyes. He could hold the essence of this one: the fall, the red-haired Texan, a sense of emptiness.

He poked at the remnant of his fire, adding a few dry sticks to coax the flames, then building the blaze with larger pieces of wood. He sat hunched in the robe, staring into the flames, trying to decide what the spirits had told him. They did not always speak clearly.

He had much to ponder.

* * *

Buffalo Caller wished he had not seen the horses. The discovery threatened a premature breakup of a carefully planned expedition.

He had led his group of twenty warriors, mostly young and eager for plunder, far to the west before dropping southeastward toward the Colorado River settlements. He counted on being able to make a deep penetration, as he had done several times in the past, before his band attracted attention.

Now, from the cover of timber along the river, he peered out onto a rolling prairie where the horses were scattered, grazing. They were an inviting target. Too inviting.

Tall Eagle argued, "We have already come far. We are likely to be discovered soon, and we may be forced to turn back with hands empty. I say we should take these horses and be content."

Buffalo Caller struggled to control his temper. Only a poor leader had to shout and harangue his followers. "We agreed before we came. We would not strike a blow until we are deep in the Texan country. As we go out we will leave a trail of fire. Those who survive will run like rabbits and our land will be rid of them."

The warriors had departed the encampment days ago fired with enthusiasm, but now he was disappointed to see how easily the young men could become distracted from the larger goal by discovery of a lesser prize. He had seen wolves snarl and fight over the right to one buffalo calf when there were many more close by, easy to bring down.

"We know where these horses are," he said. "They will still he here when we return. Be patient, for there are many more horses farther on. We can have those and these as well."

He feared some of the young men would follow Tall Eagle and spoil the grander plan, for they were not bound to follow Buffalo Caller should they at any time disagree with his leadership.

Tall Eagle pointed through the trees. "There stands a white man's house. You seem more interested in blood than in horses. We can take them by surprise and kill them all, then capture the horses."

Buffalo Caller remembered this log house. He had picked up several horses and mules here once, adding them to a large band taken farther to the east. Now the chance of discovery had forced his warriors to stop riding in daylight, and they had taken cover along the edge of the river, waiting for darkness to hide them as they traveled. He had been studying the house awhile, trying to determine how many might be living there and how strong their defense might be. So far he had seen only one man, and by the way he walked he was old. He had seen two women and two or three children. He thought it probable that the young men of the family were away to the big war.

"I say we go farther, because once we strike. there will be no more surprise. Everywhere else, they will gather and wait for us. The spirits have favored us so far, but if we are foolish they will turn away."

Tall Eagle acknowledged the logic but hated to pass by an easy prize for a larger yet chancier one. "You dream. The white men will never give up our lands. There are too many, and they keep coming. We can no more kill them all than the wolves can kill all the buffalo. But we can do like the wolves and feed from them. We can take their horses. We can even take their cattle and trade them to the Mexican Comancheros."

Buffalo Caller had never understood that defeatist sentiment. He had never doubted that The People could defeat the Texans if only they would steel their hearts and minds to accept the high cost of the fight. Nothing of value was gained without work and sacrifice.

Steals the Ponies said, "My father is right. Why be content with the hooves and tail when we can have the whole animal?"

Buffalo Caller turned, pride warming him. His son was not inclined to speak often, but when he spoke he showed he had inherited his father's wisdom.

Tall Eagle gave in reluctantly. "The next time we find many horses, we will take them and turn back."

The band remained in the timber, waiting for darkness to cover their movement. Shortly before dark, another white man arrived at the cabin. Several of the people inside came out to greet him. He and the old man led the new arrival's horse to the barn and turned him loose.

The young men were pleased, because this meant one more horse for the taking. Buffalo Caller was pleased because this was one more white man to die when the time came.

Rusty Shannon was brushing Alamo's back when he saw a rider approaching the ranger camp in a lope, his horse lathered with sweat.

Private Tanner was leading his own horse back from the water. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Feller comin' yonder must be carryin' a powerful message. He's fixin' to kill his horse."

Rusty put the brush into a wooden box and squinted. Something about the rider looked vaguely familiar. "I do believe that's James Monahan. He wouldn't come out of hidin' without there's a strong reason for it."

Tanner stopped abruptly. "Monahan? Ain't he the one who ..

"That's him."

Rusty tied Alamo to a tree and sprinted toward the camp headquarters. "Captain Whitfield. Somebody comin'."

Whitfield stepped out of the open-fronted tent as James slid his horse to a stop and hit the ground trying to run, stumbling in fatigue. James's anxious gaze fell immediately upon the captain. "You the man in charge?"

"I am, sir. What is your business?"

"Indians. A sizable bunch of them, a good ways west of here and on their way south."

"You saw them yourself?"

"Sure as hell did, me and a preacher. He found their trail, real fresh, and we both followed it a ways 'til we almost ran up on them from behind."

"How many?"

"Twenty or so. Enough to do a right smart of mischief."

The captain appeared convinced, yet suspicious. "You say they were a long way west of here. There's very few people to the west of this place. What were you doin' out there?"

For the first time James spotted Rusty. He made a tiny nod of acknowledgment. "Tryin' to stay out of sight."

Rusty realized that Whitfield had not seen James before and had no reason to recognize him. He wished now he had not said anything to Tanner. Though the lanky ranger was a talkative sort, he could hold his silence when necessary. Rusty intended to tell him it was necessary.

The captain said, "Why would Indians ride so far west if they are on the warpath? There are no people out there for them to raid except maybe a few camps of deserters and renegades." His narrowed eyes made the implication clear.

"Me and the preacher, we figured they were tryin' to travel without bein' seen. They'd go south, maybe down as far as the Colorado, then cut east and hit the lower settlements."

"And where is this preacher?"

"He figured to circle around and get ahead of them, then warn the folks livin' in their way. I come to fetch you and your company."

Whitfield gave the order for most of the company to he ready to ride in twenty minutes, leaving only a skeleton guard. He told James, "We'll furnish you a fresh horse. You intend to come with us, don't you?"

"Damn betcha. I got folks somewhere down yonder."

Rusty threw his saddle on Alamo. Whitfield pointed out a horse for James, and Rusty caught him. As he transferred his saddle, James said quietly, "You could've given me away. How come you didn't?"

"Looks to me like he's pretty well figured you out as it is. He's got you pegged for a fugitive from the conscript, and maybe one of them renegade horse thieves in the brush to boot. The only thing he doesn't know is that you're the man who tried to kill Caleb Dawkins."

"You goin' to tell him?"

"I'll keep my mouth shut unless he asks me. But I won't lie to him." Rusty had not forgotten that James once contemplated killing him. "You took a big chance comin' here."

"Wasn't no choice. Preacher Webb knows how to find my family and warn them. I don't know where your farm is."

Rusty jerked his head, motioning for James to follow him to his tent. "We'll pick up some grub. It'll be a long, hard ride."

James explained, "Me and Preacher Webb been keepin' pretty close touch. He was on his way out to see me when he come upon that fresh Indian trail."

Rusty put some jerky, cornbread, and coffee beans into a cloth sack. "If it hadn't been for worryin' about your family, would you have come and told us about the Indians?"

"I don't know. I'd've had to think about it awhile."

That at least was an honest answer.

Rusty counted ten rangers, including himself, plus James, mounted and ready to ride. On Whitfield's command they set out in a trot. The temptation was strong to run the horses, but the animals would tire out and break down long before they reached the Colorado. At best it would be a hard two days' ride. The captain's strategy was to travel straight south. If James's theory was correct, that the Indians would turn eastward at some point, the rangers should intersect their trail without wasting extra miles.

Rusty suggested, "Captain, I can point you to my farm down there. Not many people live to the west of it."

"Then do so, if you please."

Much later they stopped in a stream to water the horses. The captain pulled up beside James. "I don't believe I heard your name."

"I don't see where that matters."

"I've been rememberin' a description I heard. Do you know a man named Caleb Dawkins?"

James flashed Rusty a look of resignation. "I do."

"I believe you are the James Monahan who attempted to kill him. Would I be guessin' close?"

James shrugged. "Close enough."

"I can't say that I criticize your motive. I do criticize your marksmanship."

"I was a little excited. Next time I'll try to keep my head."

"It's my job to see that there is no next time. Consider yourself under arrest."

"You're not sendin' me back now, are you?"

"I can't spare the men. Do you give me your word that you'll stay with us?"

"'Til we see about my folks and them Indians. After that, I ain't promisin' you nothin'."

"Fair enough. But understand this: afterward, if you try to run it'll be my job to stop you. Even if it takes a bullet in the back."

"Looks to me like we understand one another." James looked at Rusty. "Is that your feelin', too?"

Rusty had let him go once, though he had little choice. "Like I told you last time, I follow orders."

They rode in silence, trotting awhile, picking up into an easy lope for short stretches, then trotting again. The pace put miles behind them quickly, but not quickly enough to ease the persistent burning sensation where Rusty's rump met the saddle. He could not put aside a fear that they might be too late.

They rode far into the night and made a dry camp, resuming the march at first light. The second night Rusty guessed that they were near the river, though he could not be certain of the distance. Whitfield ordered a halt.

Rusty argued, "If we keep goin' we ought to strike the Colorado pretty soon.

"We may do it afoot if we don't rest these horses."

James declared, "While we're restin' there's no tellin' what may be happenin' to folks downriver."

"We can't help them if we can't get there, and we'll never get there on dead horses." But Whitfield eased a bit. "We'll let them breathe an hour or so, then we'll see."

The horses may have rested, but Rusty did not, nor did James. They paced back and forth until in exasperation Tanner said, "I wisht you boys'd set yourselves down awhile. You're makin' me tired just watchin' you."

James retorted, "You ain't got folks down there to be worryin' about." He glanced at Rusty. "For that matter, neither do you."

Rusty's mind had been dwelling on Geneva since they had begun the trip. "Maybe I do. Or will have someday."

Whitfield had been lying on his spread-out blanket. He arose and rolled it, tying it behind his saddle. He was irritatingly calm. "All right, boys, time to travel."

Rusty sighed in relief. James was already in the saddle while Rusty tightened the girth he had loosened so Alamo could breathe easier. Rusty took up his position to point the way, though it was not necessary. They had been moving as nearly due south as the terrain would allow.

In about an hour he came upon a wagon road, visible in the light of the full moon. It ran generally east and west. "I know this one. It follows the river.

Shortly he was on the riverbank. "There ought to be a farm on the other side, just a little ways up."