[Texas Rangers 03] - The Way of the Coyote (23 page)

He approached a middle-aged woman who was cutting thin strips of mule meat to dry. He decided he had nothing to lose by asking outright. "Grandmother, I am looking for my brother. He has about six summers. He stands this high." He indicated Billy's height. "He was taken from my family not long ago. I believe he has been here."

She stared at him as if he had two heads. "You talk like one of The People, but you have the look of a
teibo
."

"I am both," he admitted. "But what of my brother? You have seen him?"

"Such a one was here. Those who cheated us took him and went on." She pointed her chin to the northwest. "He is a Texan boy. He is claimed as a son by one called Fights with Bears."

Andy could remember no one wearing such a name. He might be of a different band than Andy's, or he could have changed his name from something else. It was customary among The People to shed an old name if a new one seemed more appropriate.

"Thank you, Grandmother." He started back to the cart camp, for he had found out what he wanted to know.

He knew from the racket that something had gone badly wrong in his absence. The Indians had emptied the carts in their search for more whiskey. Goods lay scattered and trampled on the ground. Shouting, quarreling warriors wrestled each other for possession of the several jugs they had found. Andy looked for Martínez and found that the cart men had carried him out past the edge of camp. He lay on a. blanket. One of his helpers pressed a folded cloth against a wound in Martínez's shoulder. Blood streaked the side of his head.

One of the cart men spoke to Andy in Spanish, but Andy could not understand. Martínez groaned. "I knew we should have gone on."

Andy saw that Martínez had been knifed in the shoulder. He had another wound on the side of his head, probably administered by a club. "I could not stop them," Martínez wheezed. "They wanted the whiskey."

"I could've told you that. It was a mistake, bringin' it in the first place."

"I need no lectures, boy."

Andy said, "I found out about Billy. He was here. That other bunch took him with them. I believe I know where they went."

Martínez was incredulous. "You think we can go after them now?"

"We have to."

"Look. Look what they have done to the camp. The trade goods. They took two of the oxen for beef. And see what they have done to me. I have not the strength to go on."

"But you promised."

"A dead man cannot keep promises, and I am nearly dead. If I live to get back to Anton Chico, I will never go among the Comanches again."

"You're quittin'?"

"What else is to be done? If this time is not the death of me, the next will be."

Andy saw that argument was futile. Clearly, Martínez was in no condition to continue the search. He would be fortunate to get away from here with one cart and perhaps most of the horses and mules for which he had traded earlier. He would be doubly fortunate if his small crew did not have to bury him in some unmarked grave between here and his valley home.

Andy said, "I'm sorry. I had hoped we could get Billy without things comin' to this kind of pass."

"You should give up and come with us, or go home. You see here what can happen."

"I kept my mouth shut when I should've talked, and Billy got taken because of it. I promised myself I'd bring him back or never go home at all."

"You are a fool."

"I don't doubt that. But I'm goin' on by myself."

Martínez gave him a look of despair. "You do not have to be by yourself." He spoke in Spanish. A cart man removed a crucifix and chain from Martínez's neck. Martínez handed it to Andy.

"It has been blessed by a priest in Santa Fe. Wear this and you will not be alone."

"Doesn't look like it helped you much."

"I am alive. I do not ask more of God."

At first light, Andy saddled Long Red and was on his way. The tracks were many and easy to follow.

R
usty Shannon stood on the bottom rung of the corral fence, studying three riders approaching from the north. He recognized James Monahan, Evan Gifford, and Len Tanner. He could not see Andy. He blinked in an effort to sharpen his sight, but still he saw only the three. Dread built a knot in his stomach.

Josie Monahan climbed up beside him. "What you lookin' at?"

"Riders comin'. Your brother James, Evan, and Len."

Her eyes brightened for only a moment, then trouble darkened them again. "What about Billy? And Andy?"

Rusty shook his head.

Josie leaned against him and choked off a small cry of disappointment. She glanced back toward her sister's house. Geneva sat in a rocking chair on the dog run, rocking the baby girl.

Josie said, "She's gone half crazy with worry and grief. At least Evan is comin' back. Maybe that'll help."

Rusty had watched Geneva waste away. He knew she had eaten but little, and he doubted that she had slept much. She clung to the baby as if the girl were the only family left to her. She had drained herself of tears. Now her eyes were dry and hollow and haunted.

Josie said, "I'd better go tell Geneva and Mama."

She seemed reluctant to start. Rusty hugged her for whatever comfort that might give her, then watched her move away toward her sister. He opened the corral gate and waited. He felt no need for a lot of questions. Despair in the dusty, bearded faces told him almost all he needed to know. He asked only, "Andy?"

Tanner's expression was grim. "He wouldn't come back with us. He's still out there somewhere, lookin'."

Geneva hurried out from her cabin, carrying the baby, and ran to meet her husband. He folded both of them into his arms. Rusty heard her cry. Clemmie came from the larger family house with Preacher Webb. She shaded her eyes with her hand a moment, then rushed to embrace her son. Webb trailed, letting her have her moment with James.

Rusty asked Tanner, "Find any trace of the boy?"

"We saw Indian sign, but there was no way to tell if they still had Billy or not."

Rusty's voice turned critical. "I don't see how you could've let Andy stay up there by himself."

"He wasn't by himself." Tanner explained about the
Comancheros
and the deal James had offered to barter the boy's freedom with horses.

Rusty protested, "But Andy's just a boy himself."

"Maybe you ain't paid enough attention to him lately. He don't act like a boy when he's got his mind made up. Said he was goin' to find Billy however long it took."

"You still ought to've stopped him."

"Tell you the truth, I don't think we really wanted to. He feels like it's his fault Billy got taken. Another thing, he can go places the rest of us can't. If anybody's to find Billy, it'll be him."

Rusty's anxiety was not appeased, but he saw it was useless to belabor the point. "Did you see Captain Burmeister anywhere?"

"Not since he turned back."

"He went out again, soon as his men got a little rest, supplies, and some fresh horses. God knows where he is."

"I'm surprised you didn't go with him."

"I don't have the strength to keep up on a hard ride. I'd be a millstone around everybody's neck. And somebody needed to be here besides Preacher Webb and Macy in case some Comanches or Kiowas decided to pay another visit."

Rusty watched Geneva and the baby return to their cabin. Evan had an arm around his wife's shoulders. Rusty ached for all of them. He could imagine the hell Evan had endured in the futile search for his son, the heartbreak he must have suffered in turning back.

Preacher Webb moved up beside Rusty and Tanner. "We prayed mighty hard. Sometimes it takes awhile, but you generally get an answer if you don't give up hope."

From someone else Rusty might have taken that as an empty platitude, but he knew Webb believed with all his soul.

Webb walked back to the family house with Clemmie and James. Rusty watched in silence. Clemmie had taken her father's death hard, but she had never let her back bend. She stood straight and determined.

Knowing it was futile, Rusty climbed onto the fence again and looked northward. Josie reached up and gripped his arm. "I can see in your face what you're thinkin'. Don't. You'd never find Andy. One boy alone, out in hundreds of miles of open prairie."

"A boy who considers himself a man."

Tanner declared, "He
is
a man, I tell you. He's given himself a job that few men would have the guts to try."

"I ought to be up there with him."

"You'd never make it past the first Comanche camp. But he will. He's got enough Indian in him."

* * *

Captain Burmeister returned in a couple of days with his little group of frontier guards. He was painfully frustrated, men and horses weary, dried out, and hungry. "It is hopeless," he told Rusty. "Of water there is not enough. It will never be a country for white men, not while we live."

"There is water," Rusty argued. "Otherwise, the Indians couldn't stay."

"But only the Indian knows where it is."

"Tanner was tellin' me about runnin' across some oxcart traders out of New Mexico. Looks like they know how to find water. Someday somebody will start markin' the water holes and the trails. Once it's done, that country won't be a mystery anymore. There won't be anyplace safe for Comanches to hide."

"Someday," Burmeister said. "But it is for now that we must worry. We know so little, and we are so few."

Rusty had been chewing on an idea for several days. "Captain, could you use another man?"

Burmeister's gray mustache lifted in a smile. "As in times past, before the fools on both sides carried us into war?"

"Like then. I realize it's not quite the same as the old-time rangers, and I know I'll be awhile gettin' my full strength back. But I feel like there's things I can do to make myself useful."

"But you have your own home, far from here."

"Not anymore. I've been carpetbagged out of it. I need to stay up in this part of the country for now, but I don't want to keep bein' a burden to the Monahans."

Tanner's mouth sagged open. Rusty had not mentioned the idea to him.

Burmeister turned. "And you, Private Tanner? What of you?"

Tanner grinned. "Why the hell not? When I was a ranger I went hungry half the time, and I never got paid what they promised me. They was the best years of my life."

"I cannot guarantee you will be paid this time. In Austin promises are many, but the well is often dry."

Rusty had one reservation. "Somethin' you ought to know, Captain, before you swear me in. There's a charge against me down home. It's a false charge, but it's on the books just the same."

"Not murder, I hope."

"Nothin' like that. I'm charged with aidin' and abettin' the escape of a criminal. But I never did it. He took one of my horses without me knowin' it. They claim I gave it to him."

"They?"

"Two brothers by the name of Oldham. Durin' the war they hid out in the brush. I had some trouble with them."

"They did not serve in the Confederate Army?"

"Nor the Union Army either. But now they're state police."

Burmeister scowled. "Do not worry about the state police. There are some good men but also some rotten apples. They have no authority over my company."

* * *

Rusty's announcement took Josie by surprise. She was dismayed. "Rusty, you can't. You mustn't."

"I can't stay here just doin' nothin'."

"You have a home here as long as you want it."

"It's your home, not mine."

"But it could be your home. You could be one of us."

He took her hands. "The Monahans have been the nearest thing to family that I've had since Daddy Mike and Mother Dora. There's not a family anywhere that I'd rather be a part of."

"I've always hoped that you and me—"

"I know. If I was in a shape for marryin', you're the one I'd ask. But I'd have nothin' to offer you now, not so much as a roof over your head or a plot of ground for a garden. And there's Billy out yonder somewhere, and Andy. I can't be thinkin' of makin' a home 'til that's all settled."

"What do you think you can do?"

"Ride. Watch. Listen. Maybe somewhere out there I'll find somethin' or hear somethin'. I don't know what, and I won't know 'til it happens."

She pressed his hand against her lips. "When the job is done, you know where I'll be."

* * *

Burmeister had set up his base camp several miles from the Monahan place. On the way there Rusty was aware that Burmeister watched him with a critical eye. When they reached the camp, the captain asked him, "You are tired?"

Rusty was, but he chose not to acknowledge it. "I'm doin' better than I thought I might."

"We will not push you too hard, not at first."

"I'll tote my share of the load."

"You always did. Always you were a good man on patrol. There was not much you did not see."

"You're wantin' me to go on scout?"

"Tomorrow, and only as far as you feel strong. Take Private Tanner with you. Look for sign of Indians. But do not engage. Come back and report."

"Yes sir." It would feel good to be doing something useful again and not be considered an invalid. "There's nobody I'd rather have with me than Tanner. Even if he does sometimes talk 'til my ears hurt."

The camp reminded him of earlier times, before and during the war when he had served with the rangers in the Fort Belknap country. Burmeister maintained a loose form of military discipline and routine that lent at least some structure to each day. Rusty studied the men, quietly trying to assess their potential. He found that most had escaped Confederate service, a couple of them by going to Mexico, a couple more by serving in the Union Army. One or two he suspected of having been brush men, hiding out from conscription officers. That did not necessarily brand them in his view. James Monahan had done it. On the other hand, so had the Oldham brothers.

Rusty guessed that his first day's ride with Tanner covered about twenty miles, about as much as he could expect while watching the ground for tracks. The last few miles set his shoulder to throbbing and aggravated an old leg pain from his long-ago arrow wound.