[Texas Rangers 03] - The Way of the Coyote (2 page)

Andy placed his hand against his heart. "Here, inside, I am Comanche."

Another boy might cry, but Andy's Indian-instilled pride would not allow him to give way to that much emotion, not outwardly. Inwardly he could be dying and not show it. Even when Rusty had first found him lying flat on the ground with his leg broken and given up for dead, Andy had not cried.

Rusty said, "You'll feel better when we get to some friendly faces."

Andy clenched his teeth and looked away.

Dusk revealed a campfire several hundred yards ahead. Rusty's first instinct was to circle widely around it, but he reasoned that Indians were unlikely to build so visible a fire this near to settlements.

Andy asked, "The Monahan farm?" That had been Rusty's first announced goal.

"We're not far enough south yet."

If it were still wartime Rusty would suspect that the camp belonged to deserters from the Confederate Army or men trying to escape conscription officers. But most of the hideout brush men had dispersed peacefully when war's end removed any reason for isolating themselves.

He said, "I'd pass them by, but we ain't eaten a fit meal in days. Maybe they even got coffee."

He recognized a chance that these might be outlaws. Defeat of the Confederacy had left legal authority badly diminished at state and local levels. The wartime brush men had grown accustomed to living like coyotes, constantly on the dodge from Confederate authorities. Now a minority had turned to raiding isolated farms and villages, stealing horses and whatever else came easily to hand. The risk of punishment was slight where law enforcement was scattered thin and rendered toothless by lack of funds. The Federal occupation forces appeared more interested in punishing former Confederates than in suppressing the lawless or pursuing hostile Indians.

Rusty made out the shapes of two wagons. These gave him reassurance, for outlaws were not likely to encumber themselves with anything that moved so slowly. He reined up fifty yards short of the fire to shout, "Hello the camp."

Several men cautiously edged away from the firelight. An answer came. "Come on in."

Rusty sensed that several guns were aimed at him. He kept his hands at chest level, away from the pistol at his hip and the rifle in its scabbard. "We're peaceable."

"So are we." The reply came from someone who moved back into the flickering glow of the fire, holding a rifle at arm's length. Once Rusty could see the lanky, hunched-over form and the long unkempt beard, he was reasonably sure he had encountered the man before.

He asked, "Don't I know you from around Fort Belknap?"

The man peered closely at Rusty. "I've freighted goods over that way."

"I was in the ranger company. Served under Captain Whitfield. And before him, Captain Burmeister."

"I remember Whitfield. A good and honest man. But there ain't no rangers since the war ended. What you doin' way off out here in the edge of Indian country?"

"Dodgin' Indians."

"Us, too. We're huntin' buffalo. Saltin' humps and tongues to barter back in the settlements." Barter was almost the only method of exchange in Texas since war's end. Spendable money was as scarce as snow in August. The man turned his attention to Andy, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What you doin' with that Indian kid?"

"He's not an Indian. They stole him when he was little. Tried makin' him into a Comanche."

"He's got the look of one. I don't know as I'd want to run into him in the dark."

"He's a good kid. Just not quite sure yet who or what he is."

"I'd put some white-boy clothes on him as quick as I could. Else somebody might shoot him for an Indian. Rescued him from the Comanches, did you?"

"It's more like he rescued me. You-all got any coffee? I'd lease my soul to the devil for some fixin's like we had before the war."

"We've got a little coffee cut with parched grain. Best we can do. Mix it with whiskey and it ain't too awful. Got some beans and buffalo hump, too. You look kind of slab-sided."

"Much obliged. We're as hollow as a gourd."

Andy had not spoken. He dug into his supper like a starved wolf.

The hunter watched him with interest. "The boy's got the manners of a wild Indian, all right." The comment was matter-of-fact, not judgmental. "You've got a lot to unlearn him before you can make him white again. He some kin to you?"

"No, the only kin we've found is an uncle. He looked Andy over and turned his back on him."

"Probably figured he was too far gone to civilize. You figurin' to finish raisin' him?"

"Somebody's got to."

"I wouldn't want the responsibility. How did he fall into your lap?"

"He came down into the settlements on a horse-stealin' raid."

"That young'un ain't old enough."

"He sneaked off and followed the raidin' party. Didn't let them see him 'til it was too late to send him hack. Horse fell on him and broke his leg. That's the way I found him."

"He looks all healed up now."

"We kept him 'til he was, me and some friends of mine. But he was homesick for the Comanches. If I didn't take him back he was fixin' to slip off and go anyway. So, bad as I hated to, I took him."

"What's he doin' here now?"

"A few of the tribe weren't happy to see him back. He had to kill one so we could get away."

The hunter frowned darkly. "Awful young to have blood on his hands. It's hard to wash off."

"Wasn't none of his choosin'."

"If I was you, I'd turn him over to the Yankee army. I've heard they've got schools for Indian boys back East someplace."

"But he's white. Reckon I'll keep him and do the best I can."

"I'm glad it's you and not me."

Rusty explained, "When I look at him I see what I could've been. The Comanches stole me once, just like him. If the Lord hadn't been lookin' my way, I'd be Comanche now myself. Or dead."

Rusty sipped with pleasure the mixture of bad coffee and bad whiskey. "Andy's got a long, twisty road ahead of him. But I want to give him the same chance I had."

The hunter said, "I ain't heard him speak. Has he forgot how to talk English?"

"It's comin' back to him. He just needs time."

"I've known a couple of boys the Indians taken and kept for years. Never could purge all the coyote out of them. They was like a broke horse that has to pitch once in a while no matter how long he's been rode."

"Nothin' comes easy if it's worth anything."

"Just so you don't expect too much. You're dealin' with damaged goods." The hunter started to tip the whiskey jug, then remembered his manners and offered it to Rusty. "You'll probably need a lot of this before you get that boy raised. You got a woman?"

"I'm not married."

"Too had. Sometimes a woman's influence can help in tamin' a wild one. Got any prospects?"

"The one I wanted married somebody else."

When Rusty and Andy had finished supper, the hunter said, "You-all are welcome to spend the night. Just one thing ... are them Comanches huntin' for this boy?"

"There's a chance a few still are." Rusty sensed what was on the man's mind. Andy's being here might put the camp in jeopardy. "Maybe it's best we move on a little farther."

"No, you-all stay. We'll double up the guard. If there's any Indians prowlin' about they're apt to give us a try whether the boy is here or not. We won't let him fall back into their hands."

Rusty warmed with gratitude. These men were strangers, yet they were offering an orphan boy their protection. "I'm much obliged."

The hunter shrugged. "We've got the Federals comin' at us from one side and Indians from another. And scallywags that dodged the fightin', pushin' and shovin' now to get onto the Union tit. Us old Texas rebels have got to stick together."

Rusty had never considered himself a rebel. On the contrary, he had harbored a quiet loyalty to the Union all through the war, though it would have been dangerous to make an open display of that loyalty. Hundreds who did so had died at the hands of Confederate zealots. He saw no point in mentioning this now that the war was over. They were all considered Americans again, though many had lost their basic legal rights of citizenship, including the vote.

He said, "I'll stand my share of the guard."

"Figured that. I wouldn't expect no less out of a ranger." The hunter grunted. "You reckon we'll ever get the rangers back again?"

"Not anytime soon. The Federals have a hard opinion of anything they think smells Confederate. They bristle up at the thought of Texans ridin' in bunches and packin' firearms."

The night passed without incident. Rusty and Andy ate breakfast with the hunters. As Rusty saddled his horse, the leader jerked his head, summoning him to one side.

"You remember me tellin' you about them two boys that came home after years amongst the Indians? One of them eventually went to the bad. Killed a man and tried to run off back to the Comanches. There wasn't no civilizin' him. Posse had to shoot him like a hydrophoby dog."

"It won't he like that with Andy."

"Don't take him for granted. Watch him, or one mornin' you might wake up with your throat cut."

* * *

The hunters spared Rusty enough meat and salt to last until he and Andy reached the Monahan family's farm. He intended that to be the first stop on the long trip back to his own place down on the Colorado River. Andy seemed increasingly concerned after they resumed their journey.

"The man say maybe somebody shoot me for Indian."

"Nobody's fixin' to shoot you. Just the same, I'll be glad when we get you into different clothes. And we need to cut that hair."

Andy touched one of the long braids that hung down his shoulders. "Cut? What for?"

"They draw attention. Lots of folks don't trust anybody that looks different." The hunter's warning weighed heavily on Rusty's mind.

"I
am
different. I am not ashamed."

"I'm not sayin' you should be. Ain't your fault the Comanches stole you.

"It was a good life."

"But not the life you were born to. Me and Daddy Mike and the preacher trailed after the war party that stole you, us and a bunch of volunteers. We never could catch them. It was like the wind picked them up and carried them away. I don't suppose you recollect much about that."

"A little only."

It was well that the boy did not remember much. Rusty remembered more than he wanted about the long pursuit, the shock of first blood when they came upon Andy's kidnapped mother cruelly butchered on the trail. Before that, he had never seen a person dead at Indian hands. In the years since, he had seen many. Back East there had been but one war, between Confederates and the Union. Here on the Texas frontier there had been another, against Comanche and Kiowa. He was grateful the Eastern war was over. He could see no end to the one closer at hand.

Through no fault of his own Andy was caught in the middle, whipped about like a leaf in a whirlwind. Rusty had experienced a similar inner conflict, a similar confusion of loyalties during the war between the states.

He said, "It's not like you've got any druthers. At least you know what your real name is. I had to borrow mine."

Andy fingered the braid again. Sternly he said, "I will wear white-man clothes. I will talk white man's talk. But I do not cut my hair."

R
usty heard cattle bawling. The sound told him they were being gathered or driven in a place where he would not expect that to happen. Landmarks indicated he was yet north of the Monahan farm. This was still buffalo range on those occasions when migration drifted the grunting herds across it. They grazed the grass short, their sharp cloven hooves crushing its remnants into the ground, to be revived when the rains came again. It was home to deer in the brushy draws and antelope on the open prairie. Now and then a band of wild horses passed through, led by a blood-bay stallion, ranging free. It also provided forage for scatterings of cattle lost or abandoned during the war years, the offspring unbranded and subject to claim by anyone willing to gather them.

Up to now, few settlers had risked their lives by staking claims this far beyond white neighbors. That would invite a visit by war-painted horsemen from the plains. But more people would be coming soon, Rusty thought. Thousands uprooted by war were seeking new homes and a new beginning. After four years of agonizing conflict between North and South, the frontier would seem a lesser hazard.

Dust swirled over three riders pushing sixty or seventy cattle toward a line of brush that marked the course of a sometime creek. Rusty first thought the men might be cattle thieves, but reflection dispelled that notion. Cattle were not worth stealing these days. They had multiplied to a point of becoming more nuisance than asset, difficult to sell because few people had money to pay even if they wanted them. They were plentiful enough that anyone needing beef and willing to risk exposure to occasional Indian raiding parties could venture out and get it at no cost beyond the effort expended in the chase.

At sight of Rusty and the boy the riders quickly pulled together in a defensive stance. They eased as the two approaching horsemen drew near enough for recognition. James Monahan rode forward while the other two held the herd together. He was of about Rusty's age, a little to one side or the other of thirty. Like Rusty he could have been taken for forty. The harshness and toil of frontier farm life, compounded by war, had left his face deeply lined, his eyes haunted. He sat soldier-straight in the saddle, however, in an attitude that could be taken for either pride or defiance. Knowing James, Rusty considered it an even mixture.

Rusty was not disappointed by James's noncommittal nod. Their relationship at times had been strained by differing attitudes toward the law. James said, "About decided the Comanches had put you under." His gaze shifted to the boy. "Thought you was takin' Andy back to his Indians."

Rusty rubbed his beard. It had begun to itch. He needed a bath and a shave. "Things came unraveled. Looked for a while like neither one of us was goin' to make it out."