[Texas Rangers 03] - The Way of the Coyote (8 page)

Rusty said, "I'll sleep outside. I can hear better if somebody is comin'."

"Whatever suits you is plumb fine with me."

Rusty stayed up until late, sitting on a bench just outside the door, watching, listening.

Shanty came out with an old banjo and played a couple of tunes. Then he lapsed into silence, helping Rusty listen. "Ain't nobody comin'. Don't you reckon you'd ought to be gettin' some sleep?"

"I'm rememberin' another time I stayed here, and night riders came with a notion of runnin' you off."

"You ran
them
off, you and the sheriff."

"But this is a different bunch, and Tom Blessing ain't the sheriff anymore."

"The Lord has always watched over me. He'll keep on watchin'."

"I've seen bad things happen to people who didn't watch out for themselves because they thought the Lord was doin' it for them."

"Well, when the time comes that He wants to call me home, I'm willin' to go. I leave things to Him and don't let worry mess with my sleep."

Rusty found himself smiling. "If Preacher Webb was to ever give up the ministry, you could take up where he left off."

"I can't read the Book."

"You don't have to. You know it by heart."

* * *

Rusty lay on the shed's dirt floor. The dog came up and licked his hand. Rusty said, "Go lay down."

The dog circled a couple of times, finding a spot that suited him, then settled with his head on the edge of Rusty's blanket. Rusty doubted that he was of any practical use, like a horse or a mule or a milk cow would be, but he provided company for Shanty. For an old man living alone, that was probably a considerable comfort.

The dog's barking awakened Rusty. For a moment, while he blinked the sleep from his eyes, he thought the dog had probably rousted a varmint come to raid Shanty's chickens. Then he heard hoofbeats. He had slept in his clothes, except for his boots. Hastily he pulled them on and got to his feet, rifle in his hand. He did not know how long he had been asleep, but he doubted that anyone traveling at this time of night was burdened with honorable intentions. He walked out to where the dog had taken a stand.

"Easy, boy." The dog kept barking.

The moon's pale light showed him several riders. He could not be sure, but there were at least six or seven. He brought the rifle up and cocked the hammer. The horsemen abruptly reined up. All had their faces covered.

Rusty challenged them. "You-all are way off of the main road."

Someone exclaimed, "Who the hell—"

Someone else said, "It's Shannon. What business do you have here, Shannon?" The voice was filtered through a cloth sack covering the speaker's head.

"I'm visitin'. What about you-all?"

"We've come visitin', too. Where's that nigger?"

"I sent him away for safety." Rusty found it easy to lie in a worthy cause. "Looks like you've missed him."

"We'll see for ourselves."

Rusty raised the rifle to his shoulder.

The rider said, "You wouldn't shoot a white man."

"Maybe, and maybe not. But if you move any closer, you'll be sittin' on a dead horse."

A raspy voice spoke from behind the leader. "Rusty Shannon, you're a damned nigger-lovin' scallywag."

He would recognize Fowler Gaskin's voice if it spoke from the bottom of a well. Rusty said, "If you know me that well, Fowler, you know I'll do what I say I will. If you-all came here for mischief, you'd best turn around and go back. If you were just ridin' past, then you'd best circle around and give this place a wide round dance."

Gaskin argued, "He's by hisself. He can't get us all."

Rusty said, "No, but I could get one or two. Why don't you come up front, Fowler, where I can see you better?"

Gaskin did not budge from his position in the rear.

The leader said, "I still don't believe you'd shoot a white man."

From out in the moonlight Rusty saw two dark shapes rise up as if from the ground. He turned quickly, thinking someone had circled around him.

He heard the click of a hammer. A shotgun blasted, loud as a cannon in the night. The leader's horse jerked back and twisted around, tumbling its rider. The sack came off of the man's head. Rusty recognized the younger Brackett scrambling to get to his feet.

Gaskin shouted, "It's that crazy Indian kid. Look out, he'll kill somebody!"

Rusty realized that Andy had followed him but had remained hidden. The other figure had to be Len Tinner.

Tanner shouted, "I got me a rifle here, too."

Farley Brackett turned angrily toward the men behind him. "Gaskin, this ain't like you said. Wasn't supposed to be nobody here but that nigger."

Gaskin argued, "How'd I know Shannon'd show up, him and them others? I ain't responsible for that."

Brackett said, "No use cryin' after the milk's been spilt. "This'll keep for another day ... or another night."

After one lie, the next came even easier for Rusty. "I know who most of you are. Anything happens here, I'll know where to go lookin'."

Brackett reined his horse around. "So will we, Shannon. If them Yankee soldiers hear about this, we'll know who to blame."

Rusty had no intention of getting mixed up with Yankee soldiers, but he chose not to say so. Let these yahoos worry about it, he thought.

The riders retreated, the sound of hoofbeats diminishing as they disappeared into darkness. The dog trailed after them, barking them on their way, as self-important as if he had routed them single-handedly.

Rusty turned as Andy walked up to him. His voice was sharp. "Boy, you could've got yourself killed."

"Not by them. They're cowards."

"That's the most dangerous kind there is. Cowards take every advantage they can. What possessed you to trail after me?"

"You acted like you were afraid for Shanty. I figured I could help."

Rusty glared at Tanner. "Thought I told you to keep him at home."

"Andy's got too much Indian in him. When he makes up his mind to do somethin', all hell can't prize him loose. Wasn't nothin' I could do but come along and try to keep him from gettin' hurt."

Shanty came walking up. He had put on trousers, but he was barefoot. He held a shotgun.

Surprised, Rusty asked, "What were you goin' to do with that thing?" He had never seen or heard of Shanty picking up a firearm except to kill something for the cooking pot.

"I was afraid they might hurt you, Mr. Rusty."

"Thanks," Rusty replied, "but the only thing hurt was some feelin's. You know they had a notion to give you a whippin'. They'll do it yet if you stay here."

Shanty stared off in the direction the visitors had taken. Rusty sensed that he was assessing the danger not only to himself but to his friends. Shanty said, "Even if I was to go with you, they'd still know where I was at."

"But you won't be by yourself."

Reluctantly Shanty accepted the inevitable. "I'll gather up my needfuls first thing in the mornin'." He looked toward the dog, which had returned from seeing the riders off. "I don't know how Ol' Rough will take to movin'."

"Ol' Rough doesn't have the Ku Klux on his tail."

* * *

Riding toward Tom Blessing's cabin, Rusty heard hammering and reined Alamo toward a shed that served as a blacksmith shop, among other functions. Blessing stood before a glowing forge, beating a heated horseshoe against an anvil. He had removed his shirt. His long underwear was streaked with sweat and dirt. As Rusty dismounted, Blessing lifted the horseshoe with tongs and dipped it into a wooden tub half full of water. It sizzled. Blessing raised a big hand to shield his face from the steam.

He was a large man in advanced middle age, a contemporary of Daddy Mike and Preacher Webb. Tall, broad-shouldered and all muscle, he looked at home beside a blacksmith's forge. He said, "Git down, Rusty. You come to get of Alamo shod? The coals are hot."

Blessing grasped Rusty's hand. He had a crushing grip that made Rusty's bones ache. "Me and Len Tanner took care of that already."

Blessing seated himself on a bench in the shade and rubbed an underwear sleeve across his grimy face. He said, "I heard a little rumor over in town."

"What kind of yarn are they tellin'?"

"I didn't get this from anybody who was there. At least they didn't own up to it. But the story was that your boy Andy threatened some citizens and fired off a shotgun."

"Not
at
anybody. He fired it into the air to get their attention."

"He got it, all right. Nobody's admitted to bein' there. I don't imagine they want to explain what they were doin' at the time." He frowned. "What were they doin'?"

"A bunch of them figured on whippin' Shanty, or maybe worse." He explained his own role in the incident, then Andy's and Tanner's. "The boy puts a lot of store in him."

"Most folks around here respect Shanty, but there's always a few ... You know who they were?"

"I told them I recognized them, but I didn't. Nobody except Fowler Gaskin and his nephew." He purposely neglected to mention Farley Brackett, for the man's father had a generally favorable reputation around the community even if he was extreme in his feelings toward the Union.

Blessing considered. "I'm not the sheriff anymore, not since the carpetbaggers took over. There's not much I can do. Not officially, anyway."

The Unionist state government had fired Blessing and appointed a new sheriff from among its own ranks. That gentleman had disappointed his sponsors by leaving between two days, taking with him several thousand dollars in Federal specie. They had appointed another who did not steal but seldom ventured beyond the town limits for fear of tangling with someone who did not appreciate the majesty of the law. To talk to him about Shanty's situation would be a waste of time.

Blessing said, "Let's mosey up to the house. My wife's gone to see some of the grandkids, but me and you ought to be able to brew us a pot of coffee."

Blessing's cabin was of a standard double type. An open dog run separated the two main sections, a common roof tying them together. A loft above the dog run had been sleeping quarters for the Blessing boys until they came of age. They had to remain hunkered down to keep from bumping their heads against the low ceiling. As they grew up to their father's height, that became a considerable problem. One by one, they had left home.

A longtime neighbor to the Shannons, Blessing had been with Daddy Mike and Preacher Webb as part of the Texan force that struck a huge Comanche raiding party at Plum Creek in 1840. They found there a small white boy, barely old enough to talk and unable to tell them anything more than that his name was Davy. His red hair had soon earned him the nickname Rusty. As far back as he could remember, Blessing had been an important part of his life.

Blessing said, "After I heard the rumor, I rode by Shanty's cabin to make sure he's all right. Didn't see hide nor hair of him."

"He's over at my place. I thought it was best if he stayed with us 'til this foolishness is done with."

Blessing's wrinkles deepened. "That could be a long time. The way things are goin', with the Unionists and the Freedmen's Bureau on one side and a lot of hardheaded rebels on the other, I wouldn't be surprised none if the war busted out again."

"Sure makes me wish we had the rangers back."

Blessing said, "That's one reason Austin set up the new state police force. They're supposed to take the rangers' place, only with a different name and with Union people headin' them up."

"Most Texans ain't takin' kindly to a Unionist police force."

"At least the state police don't wear them damned blue uniforms of the Yankee army." Blessing's sympathies still lay with the rebels, though he seldom expressed them beyond his circle of closest friends.

Rusty said, "The question is whether the police will enforce the law or just keep chastisin' folks for the war."

"If they could get the right kind of men ..." Blessing studied Rusty intently. "People like you, for instance. You spent a long time with the rangers. You could help put the state police on the gospel path."

"I doubt it. Lately both sides have come around to take my measure. Neither one seems to like me."

"There's some good men in the state police. They're not all bad."

"It wouldn't be the same as the rangers. The Unionists lean too far in one direction. As for the other side ... some of them want to run Shanty off of his land. You know he won't fight back. He doesn't want to cause trouble."

"He causes trouble just by bein' there. He can't wash his skin white."

Rusty said, "He's a harmless old man. All he wants is to be left alone."

"It's liable to take some funerals before that can happen. But I've still got a little influence. I'll ride around and offer a few folks a Preacher Webb sermon ... with a little smell of hellfire and brimstone."

"You'd best watch your back, Tom. There's some folks that might not dare to face you, but they'd be willin' to shoot you when you're not lookin'."

"It's been tried. Hasn't worked yet."

Rusty finished his coffee and shook hands, then started for the door. Blessing said, "Wait." The look of regret in his eyes told Rusty that he was about to say something he disliked.

"Rusty, that Indian boy of yours—"

"Why does everybody keep callin' him an Indian?"

"He acts like one in so many ways, like the scraps he keeps gettin' into."

"He hasn't had many fights lately."

"That's because he's already whipped just about everybody who might challenge him. People are talkin' about him, Rusty. They wish you'd send him away."

"What if Daddy Mike and Mother Dora had sent me away?"

"With you it was different. You hadn't been with the Indians long enough to pick up their ways. That Andy, though ... folks are wonderin' when he's goin' to pull out a scalpin' knife and start takin' hair."

"I'll talk to him."

"I wish you would. There's a few people who might take it in their heads to do somethin' regrettable. I'd hate to see him put in the ground."