[Texas Rangers 01] - The Buckskin Line (14 page)

Paper was scarce, so Tom Blessing sketched a map on the back of an old order he had received from the governor's office in Austin during one of his limited terms in volunteer ranger ranks. "You'll remember the Fort Belknap country from when we went up north to attend the Indian removal. You oughtn't to have much trouble findin' the company camp. When Texas secedes, there won't be anybody but our own volunteers watchin' the frontier. Just a buckskin line, and a thin one. That's why they need you up there."

Rusty studied the map. "'There's several rivers to cross between here and there."

"You'll cross a lot more if you stay with the rangers. You just mind what goes on around you and be careful. Some Indian would be tickled to hang your red hair on his lance."

Preacher Webb handed Rusty a book. "Put this in your saddlebag. It'll be good readin' for you of a night."

Rusty saw what the book was. "I'll be carryin' Dad's old pistol in there. You think it and the Bible fit together?"

"Samson prayed, then slew his enemies with the jawbone of an ass. Lord knows it sometimes takes violence to bring peace."

Blessing said, "I've known many a man who carried a Bible in his pocket and a pistol on his belt. I'd rather ride with that kind than them who just carry the gun."

Rusty reasoned that it could do him no harm to make room for the book. Whether he read much from it or not was another matter. Though Mother Dora had read from hers every day, it had not saved her from the wasting illness that carried her away. Mike Shannon had been a strong believer, after his fashion, yet a bullet had found his back.

He wanted Preacher Webb to feel contented. With the Shannons gone, the minister was the only real link Rusty had to his past. "Thanks for the book, Preacher. Don't you reckon it's time we got started?"

Webb said, "I'm ready."

Rusty stepped past the sagging door of Blessing's cabin and turned to where he had tied Mike's favorite horse, Alamo. The mule Chapultepec stood patiently waiting, a pack on his back. Rusty told Blessing, "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep an eye on Fowler Gaskin. Soon as he knows I'm gone, he's liable to carry off everything that's not rooted down." He had already let Webb give Mike's and Mother Dora's clothes to families who needed them.

Blessing shook Rusty's hand. "You're doin' the right thing, goin' away for a while."

"I'm not forgettin' Isaac York."

Blessing said, "But forget about takin' your own vengeance. Leave it to the law." He looked at Webb. "And to the Lord."

"For now." Rusty turned his eyes toward the Colorado River. Beyond it lay the Llano and San Saba, the Brazos ... and how many more?

He said to the horse and mule, "I hope you-all can swim."

* * *

Following a faint wagon road that led in a northwesterly direction, Rusty and Webb made a dry camp the first night. They ate a meager meal of cold cornbread and pork Tom Blessing's wife had sacked for them. In his lingering grief, Rusty had not felt like eating much since Mike's death, so he took his supper mostly in boiled coffee stretched with parched grain.

Webb studied him a long time in the faint light of a modest campfire that barely held back the night's chill. "I don't like the look in your face. I'm afraid you still have murder in your heart."

"Won't matter how far we go. Whatever's inside, I'll carry along with me.

"You'll have other things to think about besides revenge. Distance will give time a chance to cool the passion."

"I don't want it to cool. If the law doesn't settle with Isaac, I will. Won't make any difference how long it takes ... a month, a year, ten years."

Webb's eyes held pity. "That book I gave you ... I could cite you some passages. It might help you to read them."

"I don't see you readin' out of yours."

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

Toward noon the third day Webb turned off the wagon road and bore northeastward.

Rusty looked back to he sure the pack mule was following. "Aren't we goin' out of our way?"

"Some people I know have a farm off yonder. "They'll make us welcome, and the womenfolks are fine cooks."

Though Rusty still had little appetite, he perceived that Webb was eager to make the stop. The minister enjoyed being among friends, and given any chance, he made friends of almost everyone he met. "I don't reckon there's any big hurry about me gettin' to Belknap. The main thing was to get me away from home."

"These people's name is Monahan. Lon Monahan is a good farmer and a good man. You'll like him. You'll like the whole family."

Rusty was not keen on making new acquaintances right now. They would try their best to make him feel good, and he didn't really want to feel good. Mike's death hung over him like a dark cloud. He was not yet ready for the sunshine.

Webb added, "They've got a daughter about sixteen or seventeen. Her name is Geneva. Pretty as a china doll."

That's an old bachelor for you
, Rusty thought.
Go miles out of his way to keep from missing a pretty woman
. He suspected Webb's definition of pretty was undemanding.

Rusty found the Monahan farm larger and neater in appearance than the Shannon place. It bespoke prosperity, at least by the modest standards of a Texas still in its settling-down stage. The main house was built of sawmill lumber rather than logs, though an older double log cabin still appeared to be in use. He suspected it had been the Monahans' first home and had been set aside for older family members or the boys of the family, a fairly common usage in such cases. Like the main house, the newest, largest barn was of lumber, the smaller barn and sheds older and of logs. A low rock fence surrounded a large garden. Out past the big barn, two men were building a new corral, stacking trimmed oak branches between double oak posts to form a fence. It was typical wintertime work for a farmer who had nothing to do in the fields.

Webb said, "There's Lon Monahan, out yonder with one of his sons. We'll stop and say howdy before we go up to the house."

Monahan's sun-bronzed features, droopy-brimmed felt hat, and brogan shoes would mark him anywhere as a farmer no matter how far he might stray from the plow. He wiped a huge hand on the bib of his faded overalls before reaching out to shake with Webb. "I swear to God, Preacher, it's damned good to see you."

Webb said, "You remember Mike Shannon? This is his boy Rusty."

Monahan's grip was strong enough to crush bones. His broad, easy smile added to the creases of middle age but made Rusty feel at ease with the farmer. He did not always meet strangers well. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Monahan. Preacher has told me a right smart about you." He hadn't, really, except to warn that Monahan's language tended to be salty.

"I knew your daddy in the Mexican War. Hell of a good feller. I hope he's well."

Rusty looked at the ground. "No, sir, he's dead."

"I'm sorry. How ..." Monahan broke off as Webb gave him a quick negative signal. "We'll say a prayer for him tonight at meetin'. You are goin' to stay and conduct meetin' for us, ain't you, Preacher? I'll send the boys out with word to the neighbors."

Rusty suspected Webb had anticipated Monahan's request. In any case he appeared pleased by it. Webb said, "Sure enough. I've always got time to share the Word."

Wherever he went, people expected him to conduct prayer meetings. Many who lived far from sizable settlements rarely had an opportunity to attend church. For them, circuit-riding ministers met a deeply felt spiritual need.

The other fence builder finished wedging a branch tightly into place and joined his father in greeting the visitors. He was a strapping youth near Rusty's own age. Monahan introduced him as his oldest son, James. "You all tie your horses and go on up to the house. Clemmie'll have dinner ready directly. Been awhile since we've had a real soul-cleansin' around here, so she'll be damned tickled to see you, Preacher."

Rusty sensed that the welcome was genuine, not put on for appearance's sake. He found it easy to like Monahan. The sunburned James seemed cut from the same cloth. Rough hands and muscular shoulders bore the stamp of hard work.

James asked Rusty, "You like to hunt?"

"When I've got time."

"Maybe after supper we'll go up the river a ways and see what we can find."

Lon Monahan said, "Not tonight. We're goin' to have meetin'. Maybe Rusty can stay around a few days."

"Can't. I'm supposed to report to the ranger camp up north of here."

James shrugged. "Rangers don't range all the time. Maybe when you get a little time off."

Walking toward the house, Webb said to Rusty, "I baptized all the Monahan children. I baptized you too, remember?"

"I remember. I thought you were fixin' to drown me."

"Just tried to wash away all your sins."

"I was maybe six years old. How many sins could I have had?"

""The Lord and me looked to the future. I think we headed the sins off pretty well, up to now."

"And now?"

"You're a grown man. From here on it's up to you."

Rusty doubted that Clemmie Monahan weighed ninety pounds. When she first stepped out onto the porch he took her for a half-grown girl. Closer, he saw her lined face, her graying hair, her work-hardened hands. Building this farm had left the marks of wear and worry on both her and her husband. Her face lighted up as she recognized Webb.

"Preacher!" she shouted. "Come on in this house."

Quietly, so only Rusty could hear, Webb said, "Now, lad, there is a handsome woman."

"Handsome? Maybe she was once."

"She still is. Beauty is not what you see on the outside but the spirit you know is within."

Webb bowed to the woman in a courtly manner so ingrained that Rusty doubted he realized he was doing it. Rusty self-consciously tried to emulate him but knew his was a poor imitation. Webb introduced him. Mrs. Monahan's expression turned sad for a moment when the minister told her Rusty's father was dead. He did not state the cause, and she had the good manners not to ask.

"He'll be missed, your father," she said. "Well, you-all come on in and rest a spell." She called to a boy working at the barn. "Billy, take care of the horses. And watch that mule. He's liable to kick."

The boy, about fifteen years old, shouted back, "Yes, ma'am." He led the two horses and Chapultepec into a corral.

Clemmie Monahan said, "I expect you'll want to wash off some of the road dust. There's a wash pan on the back gallery. Geneva, see that there's water in the bucket out there."

A girl appeared in the doorway. She was almost a duplicate of her mother except for being a generation younger. To call her slender would have been charitable, Rusty thought. Skinny was more like it. But she had a pleasant face, eyes filling with curiosity as she looked at him. In the room's poor light, he could not tell what color they were.

He blushed as he realized he was staring and that she was staring back.

She said, "I already did, Mama, soon as I saw Preacher Webb comin'. Brought in fresh drinkin' water from the cistern, too. Figured he'd be thirsty."

Webb accepted the hospitality with easy grace. "Such a fine welcome from such handsome young ladies reminds an old bachelor what he has missed in his life." He glanced back at Rusty. "And should be a lesson to a young one."

The girl smiled. Rusty felt his cheeks warm. He wanted to say something to cover his discomfort, but he conjured up no words that seemed appropriate. He was conscious that his clothes were dusty and trail-worn. He touched a hand to his face and felt several days' growth of stubble. Mother Dora would have pointed to Mike's razor and suggested that he use it.

The girl Geneva kept looking at him. "Does he ever talk?"

Webb grinned. "I've seem him go for days without sayin' a word except `Please pass the corn bread.' "

Defensively Rusty said, "I don't talk just to hear myself." Feeling slightly wicked and trusting that Webb would take it with good humor, he added, "I'm not a preacher."

Clemmie Monahan said, "Leave the gentlemen be, Geneva, so they can wash for dinner. We've both got work enough to do in the kitchen."

Webb was first at the washbasin. Drying himself on a square of homespun cotton cloth, he smiled. "You've not been away from home enough, lad. You need to work on the social graces."

"You have them, but they never got you married."

Webb's smile faded. "The ladies I fancied always seemed to fancy someone else."

Rusty had long suspected Mother Dora was one. It could be that Clemmie Monahan was another.

Webb emptied the wash pan so Rusty could pour fresh water into it. "Besides, I've been on the journey too much to have any normal life at home. My circuit, and the times I've ridden away with the volunteers ... I could not ask a good woman to sit in a lonely cabin and wait for me."

"I'll bet there's some would've been willin'."

"Perhaps, but it would've been unfair to ask it of them."

"Haven't you wanted to?"

"Once or twice. I always managed to think better of it. I hope you never have to look at yourself in a mirror and face a decision between your needs and your duty."

"I don't expect I'll ever be a preacher."

"There are other duties that demand all one has to give. If you should ever hear the call, you'll understand."

The family was large and the table long, with benches on either side, chairs at each end for Lon Monahan and his wife. Clemmie was on her feet much of the time, bringing food to the table, pouring coffee. Geneva sat opposite Rusty, where he could steal glances at her. Two younger sisters and the youngest brother, Billy, sat beside her. On the bench with Rusty and Webb were the oldest brother, James, and Clemmie Monahan's father, a small, thin man named Vince Purdy. He squinted as if he had a hard time seeing. Rusty suspected his sight was slowly failing. His knuckles were knotted with arthritis.

Lon Monahan asked, "Been much talk down you-all's way about this secession foolishness?"

More than just talk
, Rusty thought darkly, but he let Preacher Webb answer.