[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (20 page)

Rusty had not visited the settlement since his return home. Physically it had not changed much. It was a farming community with a plain two-story stone courthouse, a cotton gin, a general store, and three dramshops. The dirt streets were quiet, though he noticed an unusual number of men loafing in front of the store, the saloons, and a blacksmith shop. Some wore remnants of Confederate uniforms. Most had a hungry look, for they had come back from the war to find employment scarce and money scarcer. A couple of strangers gave him a hostile stare for no good reason he could think of except perhaps that he seemed to carry purpose, and they had none. To a barefoot man, the owner of an old pair of boots appears rich.

He had ridden first by the Blessing farm, where Mrs. Blessing had told him her husband was in town. Rusty entered the sheriff's office. The high windows were open, but the breeze outside was not strong enough to carry through the room. The place was oppressively warm.

Tom Blessing worked at a stack of papers, his face beaded with sweat. He laid them aside and stood up, shoving out his big, rough hand. "I hope you brought a few dollars to town, Rusty. This place ain't been blessed with fresh money in six months."

"I haven't got ten cents."

"If somebody was to spend a hundred dollars in Yankee silver it'd circulate from one hand to another and wipe out most of the town's debts before dark."

Rusty did not feel like making small talk. "There's been trouble out at the York place."

"Shanty?"

Rusty told what he and Webb had found. "They're liable to kill him next time, or try to. But that farm belongs to him. They've got no call to run him off of it."

Blessing listened, his blue eyes troubled. "Ever since Isaac left him that place, I've been afraid of somethin' like this."

"What're you goin' to do about it?"

Blessing turned up his work-roughened hands. "I could camp out at Shanty's shack and hold off trouble for a while, but I couldn't stay forever. There's just one of me. They'd wait me out and hit him after I left."

"What's the use in havin' law if it can't be enforced?"

"I'm not sure how much law there is. Governor Murrah has gone south to Mexico and taken a bunch of state officials with him. He figured when the Yankee troops move in they'd put him in irons. Like as not, they would. For all I know, they may come and put
me
in irons."

"Til they do, you're still sheriff."

"Even if I throw somebody in jail I couldn't take a case to trial. I don't think the Federals recognize any Texas courts right now."

"Kind of like havin' an empty gun and no shells."

"It's quiet here compared to some places. There's been riots in Austin and San Antonio, places like that. A lot of soldiers came home with empty pockets and feel they've got a right to whatever they feel like takin'. Been folks killed fightin' over property that don't amount to a damn."

"The Confederate government never paid much attention to us out here except for the conscript officers. Maybe the Yankees won't either."

"We won't know where we stand 'til they move in and take over."

"We may not like it."

"It's what we get for losin' the war."

It never was my war in the first place, Rusty thought. He knew Blessing had felt allegiance to the Confederacy, so he did not give voice to what was in his mind. "This still doesn't answer what we're goin' to do about Shanty."

Blessing studied him intently. "You were a ranger, Rusty. A good one, from everything I saw and what I've heard. How would you feel about bein' a deputy sheriff?"

"You just said you don't have much authority left. A deputy would have even less."

Blessing walked to a wooden rack attached to the wall. He selected a rifle and lifted it out. "Even if the government goes all to pieces—and it might—there's still authority in this."

Rusty was hesitant. "I don't know ..."

"The rifle is yours if you want it. I doubt you'll ever get any cash wages."

"When I was a ranger I got paid mighty seldom and mighty little. But why would I want to be a deputy sheriff?"

"For one thing, there's Shanty. In case of trouble, the backin' of my office might keep you out of jail."

Rusty saw some points in favor of the proposition. "I wouldn't want to be away from my farm too much."

"I'm at mine most of the time."

Rusty feared if he gave himself a chance to consider he might decide against it. "I'll do it."

"Good." Blessing fished in a desk drawer and brought out a badge. "This came from a county over in Arkansas, but if anybody gives you trouble you'd best hit him before he has time to read it anyway. Raise your right hand."

Blessing administered a short oath of his own making, then shook Rusty's hand. "Anything you feel like you need to do, tell them I told you to." He smiled in satisfaction. "Once the word gets around that you're a deputy, maybe nobody'll have the nerve to steal your old mule again."

Rusty was surprised. "What about my old mule?"

"You've missed him, ain't you?"

"Yep. I figure Fowler Gaskin's got him hid out."

"Fowler's guilty of enough stuff to earn him his own hot corner in hell, but not this time. A stranger came ridin' in the other day on Chapultepec and tried to swap him. Everybody in town knows that mule. Been plannin' to take him out to you but haven't had time to do it."

"Where's the thief now?"

"In jail. Thought I'd give him a few more days to repent, then turn him loose. There's not likely to be a session of court 'til the Yankees come.

Rusty warmed with remorse. "I'd've taken a paralyzed oath that Fowler Gaskin done it."

"You can bet he's done worse things we don't even know about. Someday when he's called to Judgment he'll have more use for a fire bucket than for angel wings."

Leading Chapultepec, Rusty arrived at Shanty's cabin a little before dark. Preacher Webb sat on a bench in front, watching. Rusty saw no sign of trouble, but he asked, "Anything happen?"

Webb stared at the badge on Rusty's shirt but made no comment about it. "Nobody's goin' to do anything in the daylight. Two men came within a couple of hundred yards and stopped to look. Then they rode on."

"Recognize them?"

"My eyes aren't what they used to be. If they ever were." Webb shifted his attention to Chapultepec. "Where'd you find your mule?"

Rusty told him. Webb nodded in satisfaction. "I don't think either man I saw was Fowler Gaskin."

Rusty realized Webb was indirectly preaching him a little sermon about rising too quickly to judge.

Shanty was in the cabin, starting to fix a small supper. He was quick to see the badge. "You the sheriff now? What happened to Mr. Tom?"

"He's still the sheriff, at least 'til the Yankees come. He made me a deputy. Said that'd give me a stronger hand in case of trouble."

"I don't see why anybody'd trouble theirselves over this little old place. It barely growed enough to make a livin' for me and Mr. Isaac."

Rusty saw no tactful way to explain that the land itself was not the issue, but rather the fact that it was owned by a black, a former slave. He suspected Shanty knew the real reason he was being harassed but was trying to deny it to himself. "These are mean times. There's people who would kill a man for a pair of shoes, much less a farm."

It went against Shanty's kindly nature to think the worst about anyone. He was probably trying to delude himself as well about the danger he faced. "I'll be all right. Ain't no need of you-all puttin' yourselves out on my account."

Rusty brushed the comment aside. "Me and Preacher will sleep in the shed. It's too late to go back to my place tonight."

Shanty made no further argument. "We'll be havin' somethin' to eat directly."

After supper Shanty took down an old banjo from the wall and played a couple of pieces. As the room darkened he lighted a candle and asked Webb to read to him from the Scripture. Webb held the Bible open, but Rusty sensed that he was reciting from memory. He knew the text so well that the Book was more for display than for reference. Shanty listened, nodding in silent agreement.

Shanty said, "If I wasn't so old I'd learn myself to read. It'd be a comfort, knowin' I could go to the Good Book any time I wanted to."

Webb said, "You can talk directly to the Lord any time you want to. He's always listenin'."

Rusty stood up, turning his right ear toward the open door. "I hope He's listenin' right now, because I hear horses."

Webb blew out the candle. "I suppose it means trouble."

Rusty said, "I don't remember the last time anybody brought me good news at this hour of the night." He picked up the rifle Tom Blessing had given him. "Shanty, if there's any shootin', lay flat on the floor. Whatever you do, don't come outdoors." He turned to Webb. "You got a gun?"

"I
prefer
to use the Word."

"If these are the same old boys that whipped Shanty before, they ain't likely to listen to no sermons. But they'll pay attention to this rifle."

For a minute or so Rusty did not hear the horses moving. He wondered if he might have been wrong, that the riders might simply have been travelers passing by. Then he saw several small points of fire bobbing about. "What in the world?"

Webb said, "They've lighted torches. They intend to burn this cabin."

Rusty counted six horsemen and a man on a mule. He thought of Len Tanner, who would have liked these odds. He wished he had the fight-loving Tanner at his side instead of the peaceable Preacher Webb.

He heard a hammer cock and looked back in surprise at a pistol in the minister's hand. "Thought you didn't have a gun."

"I said I prefer to use the Word. But sometimes you have to get their attention before they'll listen."

Rusty heard a shout, and the horses moved into a run. The men screeched and yelled as they came on, the torches weaving and dancing. A man in front fired a pistol toward the cabin. Their aim was to terrify Shanty into submission.

Rusty wondered that he felt no fear. Instead his earlier anger returned, rising like a brush fire. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder. When the leading horse was fifty feet away, he squeezed the trigger. Propelled forward by momentum, the stricken animal tumbled. He spilled the rider onto the ground almost directly in front of Rusty. Rusty dropped his rifle and jerked a pistol from its holster. He grabbed the hooded man by the collar and jammed the muzzle against his head, hard enough to break skin.

He shouted, "The rest of you stop where you're at or I'll splatter his brains all over you. If he's got any."

The other riders reined up. One cried out angrily, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm a deputy sheriff, and I'm placin' all of you under arrest." It was a bluff. If they decided to ride him down they could do it in an instant. But about one thing he was not bluffing. He hoped they believed he would blow the lead rider's brains out, because he meant it.

The downed horse kicked a few times. By the flickering light of the torches Rusty saw a whip tied to the saddle. He knew it was intended for Shanty.

He had no time for regret over killing the horse. He had shot Indian mounts to set their riders afoot. A horse was a surer target than the man on its back. Remorse could trouble him later when he had leisure to indulge in it.

The men still in the saddle hesitated, uncertain. All wore sacks over their heads with holes punched to see through. A familiar voice growled, "You think you can stop us all by yourself?"

Preacher Webb moved into the torchlight, holding the pistol up where they could see it. "He's not by himself."

"Preacher? Who the hell told you to butt in? This ain't Sunday meetin'."

"I declared war on Satan a long time ago, and it's his work you're about tonight."

Another horseman glanced at his fellows, still uncertain. "We didn't come here to do battle with a preacher, or even a deputy sheriff. It's got nothin' to do with you. We come to put a nigger in his place."

"We're all children of God, Shanty no less than the rest of us. A hand raised against him is a hand raised against a child of God."

The man on the mule said, "We didn't come here to listen to no preachin'. We come to do a job." He pushed forward.

Rusty jabbed the pistol against the leader's head hard enough that the man shouted in pain. "Boys, back off. He'll kill me sure."

Grittily Rusty said, "As sure as hell." He raised the muzzle toward the horsemen. "Whatever guns you've got, drop them on the ground."

The men looked at one another, each waiting for someone else to start. One said, "Don't you let your finger twitch on that trigger, deputy. That's my cousin you got there." He dropped his weapon, and the others followed suit, all but the mule's rider.

Rusty jerked the sack from the head of the man he had been holding. He recognized the face, though the name would not come to him. He said, "The rest of you, take off those hoods. I want to look at you."

He had to put the pistol back against the leader's head before the others complied. The man on the mule wheeled about and beat a hasty retreat. The animal's tail switched furiously as the rider quirted him.

Rusty knew the mule. He had seen Fowler Gaskin riding it lately. It was like Gaskin to start a fight, then step back and let others take the consequences.

Most of the men who remained were strangers to Rusty. "Do you know them, Preacher?"

"Most of them." Webb looked regretfully at the leader, who still had the muzzle of Rusty's pistol near his ear. "I'm sorry to see you here, Jedediah Hoskins. As many times as we've prayed together, I thought better of you."

Rusty could not have called Hoskins by name on a hundred-dollar bet, but that was natural, considering how long he had been absent in the ranger service. He said, "I didn't know most of you before, but I'll know all of you the next time."

He stepped back from Hoskins, who turned on him angrily. "Since when did the law go to sidin' with niggers?"

"Black or white, right is right and wrong is wrong. It doesn't make any difference."

"Makes a difference to us. You can't be here all the time, deputy. We'll be comin' back."