Rio (25 page)

The Texas Panhandle, Autumn, 1877

He Not Worthy of a Name crouched with his knife, watching the big herd of longhorns grazing in the coming twilight. On the flat plains, there was nothing—not a hill, not a tree, only hundreds of fat longhorns munching the arid buffalo grass.

He was so weak and sick that he swayed a little, knowing that he would only get one chance to kill a steer. If he missed, the spooky animals would all turn and thunder away, bellowing a warning to the others. If he managed to bring one down, he would have to eat it raw, but he had been eating anything he could catch raw for weeks now, and he felt the Spirit of Death hovering over him. He had one chance to fill his shrunken belly, and if he missed killing a beef, he would fall to the ground and die because he was too far gone and too fevered to walk farther. He had seen only fourteen winters, but he did not expect to see another.

By the campfire, Trace Durango dismounted with a tired sigh and looked up at the fading sunset. As always, the
wide Texas sky was splashed with purple, orange, and scarlet as the sun sank low to the west. “God, I’m wrung out like a dishrag. Cookie, you got any coffee?”

“Boss, don’t I always?” The grizzled old man took a tin cup off the backboard of the chuck wagon and hobbled over to the big pot on the fire. “The boys about got all the strays rounded up?”

Trace accepted the cup gratefully and knelt by the fire as he fumbled in his denim shirt for his makin’s. “Yep. Another day, we’ll have them all headed south for the ranches before the Blue Northers blow in.” Damn, that coffee was good. He sipped the strong, hot brew and rolled himself a cigarette.

In the distance, wafted on the cool wind, he heard a steer bellow a warning, and then another picked up the cry. The giant herd moved restlessly, stamping its hooves as other cattle took up the lowing. “Oh hell, don’t tell me we’ve got a lobo or some coyotes sniffin’ around the edge of the herd. They’ll start a stampede.” Irritably, he threw his coffee in the fire and stood up as Maverick, his half-Comanche adopted brother, rode up at a gallop.

“Trace, you hear that?” In the twilight, Maverick’s eyes gleamed as gray as a gun barrel.

“
Si
, let’s get out there and see what’s upsettin’ the steers.” Trace swung up on his black stallion.

“I already sent some of the boys up to the north end of the herd, but figure they’ll need backup if it’s a pack of coyotes.”

“Damn, and things had been goin’so well all day.” Trace pulled his rifle out of the boot, checked to make sure it was loaded, then spurred his horse. “We don’t need a stampede.”

Trace, followed by Maverick, took off through the milling herd of lowing longhorns.

“Hey, boss!” One of the McBride cowboys rode toward
him. “You ain’t gonna believe what we got cornered up on the north edge of the herd.”

Trace hardly paused. “If it was coyotes, why didn’t you just shoot them?You know how nervous these steers can get.”

“We didn’t know what to do with him, but none of us wanted to tangle with that big knife.”

Trace reined in. “What the hell are you—?”

“You’ll see. I told the boys to do nothin’’til you got there.”

Trace cantered past him, leading the trio now as they pushed through the milling cattle. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was bone tired and not in the mood for games. They rode through the uneasy steers on this land that was as flat as a peso, heading into the twilight for the big group of riders circled on the far outskirts of the herd.

“What’s going on, amigos?”

He swung off his stallion as the men made a path for him. What he faced took him a minute to take in, and even then, he didn’t quite believe it.

A scrawny boy, probably not more than thirteen or fourteen, crouched in a defense mode behind a newly slaughtered steer. The boy wore nothing but a breechcloth, and his black hair was long. The fading light reflected off the bloody knife in his hand, and the boy’s face was smeared with fresh blood.
Half-breed
, Trace thought,
like me
.

The boy was almost handsome until he turned his right side toward Trace and Trace got a good look at him. “Good God! What’s going on here?”

He Not Worthy of a Name did not give ground, still gripping his knife. He had not gotten to eat much of the steer, only a few hurried raw bites, and now this white man would hang him. He knew by bitter experience that one did not kill the white man’s cows without retribution. Well, he would go down fighting even though he was almost too sick to keep his balance.

“Boss,” one of the McBride cowboys took off his hat and
wiped his forehead, “we just followed the noise, thinkin’ it was a coyote, and here’s what we found. What’ll we do with him?”

Trace watched the boy, horrified and fascinated at the same time. The kid was so thin his ribs showed. He must not have eaten much in weeks, and the right side of his face … Trace shuddered. What was left of it was swollen, disfigured and burned.

Maverick whistled. “Looks like someone took a running iron to him.”

“Who would do that to a kid?” Trace demanded and stepped forward.

The kid promptly waved his knife at Trace and took a shaky step backward.

“Some bastard who valued his cattle more than people, I reckon,” one of the other cowboys muttered.

“Hey, Trace,” Maverick said, “this is about like it was when you found me all those years ago. He’s certainly a half-breed; let me see if I can talk to him.” He stepped forward and said softly in Comanche, “We will not hurt you.”

The boy looked puzzled, swayed on his feet, and brandished his knife.

“He didn’t understand you,” Trace said. “Let me try some Spanish or Cheyenne.” He asked the boy his name in both languages, and the starving kid blinked and shook his head.

“Hell, this isn’t doing any good,” Trace said. He stepped toward the boy slowly, holding out his hand. “Give me the knife,” he commanded. “We will help you.”

“Watch out, brother,” Maverick warned. “He looks desperate enough to kill you.”

* * *

He Not Worthy of a Name looked around at the circle of cowboys. He hadn’t a chance against so many, but he would rather die fighting than hanging. He could speak a little English he had learned when the Sioux went to trade, but he did not trust these men. He might be a worthless half-breed slave, but he could die like a warrior and he would fight even though he was having a hard time staying conscious.

Trace watched him warily. The boy was near fainting, and he swayed on his feet. In the shape he seemed to be in, it was a wonder he was still alive. At that moment, Trace charged him suddenly, grabbing for the knife. The boy fought valiantly, but in his starving condition, he was no match for the big half-Spanish, half-Cheyenne cowboy. Even as Trace struggled with him, the boy lapsed into unconsciousness and collapsed.

“Hell,” Trace threw the bloody knife away and swung the boy up in his arms. “This kid is all but dead. Maverick, ain’t there a town about five or ten miles to the west? Ride in there and see if they’ve got a doctor.”

Maverick wheeled his horse. “A doc ain’t gonna like riding out here at night for an almost dead half-breed kid.”

“Then persuade him,” Trace snapped and lifted the limp boy up on his black horse and swung up behind him.

Then he turned to the crowd of curious cowboys. “You men see if you can quiet this herd, and Mac, you bring in some of that butchered steer. We’ll all have steak tonight.”

The men scattered, and Maverick galloped away into the coming night. Trace cradled the boy in his arms as he rode back through the milling herd to the campfire.

Cookie came out to meet him. “What you got there?”

Trace handed the boy down, then dismounted and turned
his horse over to one of the cowhands. “Some wild boy eating one of our steers raw. He’s burning up with fever.” He took the boy in his arms again and carried him over by the fire, laid him on a blanket. As the fire crackled, the boy opened his dark eyes, glanced at the fire, and evidently terrified, began to fight Trace.

He was no match for the big cowboy. “Take it easy,” Trace whispered, “no one’s gonna hurt you.”

Whether he understood or not, the boy continued to fight while Trace held him down. “God, he’s scared. Cookie, get him some water.”

“No wonder,” Cookie grumbled, limping toward the chuck wagon. “Looks like someone took a brandin’iron to his face.” He brought Trace a tin cup of water and Trace held it out to the boy.

The boy hesitated and stopped fighting. Then slowly, he reached for the water and gulped it, most of it running down his chin from his shaking hand.

“Get him some more, Cookie.” Trace handed the cup back to the other man and stared at the right side of the boy’s face. “I’d say it was a running iron, not a regular branding iron.”

“Rustlers?” Cookie hobbled over to refill the cup, brought it back, and handed it to the boy, who drank it in three gulps.

Trace shrugged. “Well, those are the ones who usually use a makeshift branding iron. Maybe he interrupted a gang of them changin’ brands on someone else’s cattle, and that’s how they punished him.”

“Sick bastards,” Cookie grumbled.

The fevered boy looked around, leaning on his elbows. He tried to speak. “Texas?”

“What?” Trace asked, taken off guard.

“Texas?” The boy looked up at him with big brown eyes.
He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the burnt, swollen right side of his face.

Trace nodded, puzzled. “Texas.
Si
, this is Texas.”

The faintest ghost of a smile crossed the boy’s mouth, and he sighed. “Texas,” he whispered and nodded, then fainted.

Trace put his hand on the boy’s forehead. “He’s burning up with fever and so near dead, I don’t know if we can save him or not.”

Mac rode up just then with a haunch of the butchered steer. “Hey, Cookie, looks like we all eat good tonight.”

“And here I was plannin’ on giving you a special treat: beans,” Cookie said wryly.

Trace examined the boy. “Cookie, see if you can get some broth boilin’ for the kid, and Mac, go get me a fresh bucket of water from the spring. If we can’t get his fever down, he won’t make it ’til the doc gets here.”

Cookie paused and looked at the boy’s feet. “Oh, hell, Trace, look at his feet. They’re raw and bloody. He must have walked a hundred miles.”

“Or maybe more,” Trace said, shaking his head. “I reckon killin’ a steer and eating it raw was his last effort to stay alive. Why do you think Texas was so important to him?”

The others shook their heads, and Cookie took the beef from Mac, began to cut it in chunks.

Trace took the boy’s chin in his hand and gently turned the head so he could see the right side of his face. It was swollen and, in places, burned black. “Somebody tortured this kid. I wish I could get my hands on that bastard.”

Mac had gone for the water and now returned to the fire. “You think he’s from around here?”

Trace shook his head and began to wet the blanket the boy was wrapped in. “Don’t think so. He didn’t understand
either Comanche or Cheyenne. Must be from farther north, maybe Colorado.”

“Ute?” Mac squatted by the fire and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Who knows?” Trace shrugged. “From the looks of the soles of his feet, he may have walked several hundred miles. He might even have started with a horse and, when it gave out, began walkin’. Wish I knew why Texas was so important to him.”

Cookie got a pot of broth boiling and then began frying steak and making biscuits. The scent brought most of the Triple D and the Maverick-McBride ranch hands in to dismount by the fire.

“Whose turn is it to ride night herd?” Trace asked.

“Ted and Bill,” a tanned cowboy said as he dismounted and strode over to stare at the unconscious boy. “God, he looks almost starved to death. What are you gonna do with him, Trace?”

Trace sighed and pushed his Stetson back. “Well, I reckon I’ll take him home until I find out where he belongs. Cimarron will bring him through if nobody else can. You know how she is with all the hurt critters the kids bring in.”

The others nodded agreement.

Cookie said, “Suppose he don’t belong nowheres?”

“Well, then,” Trace reached to pour himself a cup of coffee. “I reckon we might keep him. That’s what we did with Maverick years ago, and it worked out okay.”

The boy barely stirred as Trace tried to clean his burned, swollen cheek. Then old Cookie squatted and spooned broth in between his lips. “He’s in pretty bad shape, Trace; he may not make it.”

* * *

He Not Worthy of a Name heard the man’s voice deep, deep in his soul as he felt the life-giving broth run down his throat. So they weren’t going to torture him yet for killing the white man’s cow. They would wait until someone named Maverick returned. It didn’t matter. He was too weak to fight anymore and he had made it to Texas. That had been his goal all these long, hungry moons and now he was here. He could die now.

Trace stared down into the boy’s sweating face. “He’s running a terrible fever. Didn’t I see some willow trees over at the stream?”

A cowboy behind him said, “Yep, I saw ’em.”

“Go peel the bark off some of them, and Cookie, you get ready to boil that. It’s an old Indian remedy.”

It was long past dark when Maverick returned with a cranky old doctor on a thin horse.

“If you’d told me how far it was, I wouldn’t have come.” He dismounted and reached for his black bag.

Maverick spat to one side. “You would have come if I’d had to throw you across your saddle.”

The grizzled doctor rubbed his mustache and squatted by the fireside, staring at the boy. “You dragged me away from my dinner for a boy who’s almost dead, and an Injun at that?”

Trace frowned. “Do you know who I am?” His tone had a warning edge to it.

“Uh, well, no, I reckon not.”

“Trace Durango of the Triple D ranch.”

The older man swallowed hard. Everyone knew the Triple D empire that covered hundreds of thousands of acres. “Oh, sorry, Señor Durango, I didn’t realize—”

“Now see what you can do for this boy. There’s gold in it for you if you save him.”