[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (18 page)

Gifford asked, "Don't you want to look at your new home first?"

"It'll still be there when I'm ready. I need to see after my daughter." Clemmie hurried through the door, calling, "Geneva, we're here." Alice trailed close behind.

Rusty helped Josie dismount from her sidesaddle. Smiling her appreciation, she clung to Rusty's arm longer than necessary, then followed her mother and sister.

Still on horseback, James followed the mares into the corral. Rusty waited a moment for the dust to settle, then closed the gate behind them. He heard Vince Purdy ask Gifford, "You sure Geneva's all right?"

"Preacher don't seem worried. A neighbor lady's been comin' over regular. Geneva'll do better now that she's got her family around her. She's missed them."

"And we've missed her," Purdy said. He went into the cabin.

Rusty offered a handshake. "I'm Rusty Shannon."

Gifford accepted the gesture without hesitation. "Pleased to meet you. Geneva and her folks have spoken of you. I already know a lot about you."

"I never knew about
you
'til just a little while back."

Rusty hoped his voice betrayed no resentment. His feelings were badly confused. He told Gifford, "Ever since I got home, Clemmie's been itchin' to get back here and pick up where she left off."

"Nothin' will ever be the same as it was, but she'll bow her neck and make the best of what there is. These Monahans are a strong-minded bunch."

"I know for certain that James is." Rusty looked toward Geneva's brother, still in the corral busily inspecting the mares. "We came across Pete Dawkins. He been by here, him or his daddy?"

"No, they've taken a wide round dance of this place. James let it be known that he wasn't lookin' for trouble, but if any came at him he'd go meet it halfway. Everybody knew he was talkin' about the Dawkinses. I imagine the word got to them."

"Pete gave the mares a long and hungry look."

Gifford's eyes hardened. "If any turn up missin', me and James will know where to look first. And we'd better not find them there."

Rusty sensed that there was no false bravado in Gifford. He meant what he said. That was a strong point in his favor.

The hardness left Gifford's eyes. "I owe the Monahans a lot. You have any idea what it means not to have anybody, no family ... nobody?"

Rusty felt a flicker of an old sadness. "I do. I've been there myself." Still am, he thought.

"The army sent me home, so shot up they thought I'd die. But I found I didn't have a home to go back to. Ma and Pa had both passed away. My only sister had sold the place. Then she took down with the fever, and she was gone, too. I was like a lost child 'til the Monahans took me in. Nursed me like I was their own. Got me back on my feet."

"Old Colonel Dawkins had killed Lon and Billy. Like as not you filled an empty space for the family."

"They sure filled an empty space for
me
." Gifford looked away, trying to find the right words. "I have a notion you and Geneva were sort of close. Close enough for marryin'?"

"We never talked about that. Anyway, it was a long time ago, before you came. "That's over and forgotten about." The lie almost choked him.

"I'd like to have you for a friend, Rusty, but I'd need to know I've got no reason to worry."

"You don't." Though his heart was not in it, Rusty extended his hand again. Gifford took it, then beckoned with his head. "Come on, let's go in. Geneva's had time to say howdy to her folks by now."

The bedroom half of the cabin was separated from the kitchen side by an opening over which a common roof extended. Rusty followed Gifford through the narrow door. He steeled himself, not sure what his feelings would be when he saw Geneva.

She sat on the edge of a bed, tinier than he had remembered, though her stomach was visibly extended. Alice was brushing out Geneva's long hair. Clemmie and Purdy had pulled wooden chairs up close. Geneva's features were as fine as he remembered. He thought her face looked pale, but it was hard to be sure because the room was semi-dark. Rusty felt warmth rise in his face, and for a moment he wished he had not come.

She smiled at him. "Welcome back, Rusty." She extended her small hand. Hesitant to take it, he held it gently as if it were an eggshell. She seemed frail.

"You look mighty good," he said. He felt anew the aching sense of loss. It used to be easy to talk with her. Now he felt awkward, especially with her husband standing beside her. He saw a look of affection pass between the two and wished for some excuse to leave this crowded room. The air seemed close and hard to breathe.

She said, "Rusty, when I didn't hear from you for so long, I thought you were probably dead. We heard about some awful Indian fights."

"There were some rangers killed, but none of them were me." He realized too late how unnecessary that sounded.

For the first time he noticed Preacher Webb standing back in a corner. Rusty suspected Webb was aware of his discomfort, for after a minute the minister placed a hand on Rusty's shoulder. "It's been awhile since I ministered to my flock down your way. I hope sin has not broken loose amongst the lambs."

"Not so much that a sermon or two wouldn't fix it."

"It's time I went back down there. I may ride with you when you're ready to go."

"It'd pleasure me to have your company."

Rusty turned back to Geneva. "I know you've got a lot of family visitin' to do. I'd best go see after my horse."

Geneva took his hand again. "Don't be in a hurry to leave."

He saw nothing to stay for. He had come mostly because of a compulsion to see her again. Now he had seen her, and it still hurt as badly as
not
seeing her.

The minister followed him out onto the dog run. He looked back to see if anyone might hear. "Maybe you oughtn't to've come. It's like pickin' at an old sore after it's healed over. Or
has
it healed?"

"One reason I came was to find out. And I guess it hasn't."

"There's times a man has got to turn loose of what's past, no matter how bad it hurts."

"I know. I'm leavin' here come daylight tomorrow mornin'."

"I'll ride with you, Rusty. It'll be like old times."

Nothing would ever again be like old times, but Rusty was grateful for whatever part of them he could salvage. He thought of the occasions in his youth when he had ridden with Warren Webb on the minister's preaching circuit. "I'd be tickled to have your company."

"I'd need to stop and deliver a couple of sermons along the way."

"A sermon or two might do me a world of good."

* * *

At breakfast, Clemmie expressed sorrow about their leaving. Rusty suspected her distress was over Webb's departure more than his own. She said, "I do wish you-all wouldn't hurry away. We just barely got here."

Webb said, "Rusty's got work to do at home, and I've got sheep wanderin' around lookin' for their shepherd."

Clemmie took the minister's hand. "You've got a flock here that loves to see you come and hates to see you go." Almost as an afterthought she added, "You'll always be welcome too, Rusty. You made your home ours for a long time. Now our home is yours."

"I'm obliged." Rusty thought he would probably wait awhile. Maybe someday he could look at Geneva without aching inside.

He was tightening the cinch on his saddle when Evan Gifford came around from behind Alamo, looking for a chance to speak without anyone else hearing. "I know you're concerned about Geneva. So am I. But Preacher says he thinks she'll be all right. Says it's pretty much normal, bein' her first baby."

"Preacher's a good doctor."

Again, Gifford seemed to fish around for the words. "I can tell by the way you looked at her, there was a lot of deep feelin's. I want you to know that I love her ... that I'll never hurt her ... that she'll never have reason to shed a tear over anything I do."

Rusty swallowed hard. "Nobody could ask for more than that. I hope you both live for a hundred years, and every year is better than the one before it." He put out his hand and forced a weak smile. "She made a good choice."

Gifford walked away. Preacher Webb had come up in time to hear. He gave Rusty an approving nod. "I know it hurt to say that. It takes a strong man, sometimes, to recognize the truth and to speak it."

"Then let's be gettin' started while I'm still feelin' strong." Rusty put his foot in the stirrup and swung up onto Alamo's back.

Josie stood in the open gate. Rusty saw tears in her eyes. She said, "I wish you'd stay, but I know why you can't." She glanced back toward Geneva, who stood in the dog run of the older cabin.

He said, "I'll be back one of these days."

"I know you will, because one of these days I'm goin' to marry you, Rusty Shannon." She turned and hurried toward the new house.

Preacher Webb gave Rusty a quizzical look. Embarrassed, Rusty said, "She's too young to know her own mind."

Webb smiled. "She's a Monahan. Monahans are
born
knowin' their minds."

James and Vince had turned the mares out of the corral at daybreak. Rusty and Webb rode through them as they scattered, the older mares seeking out remembered favored grazing places, the younger ones exploring their new range.

Rusty caught sight of two horsemen a quarter mile away. The pair were still.

Webb saw them, too. He squinted hard. "Maybe they're soldiers workin' their way home."

Rusty could not see the men clearly enough to recognize them, but he noted that the horses were the same colors as those Pete and Scully had been riding. "That'd be Pete Dawkins and his runnin' mate. Probably hatchin' a scheme to make a run at the Monahan mares some dark night."

"Maybe we should go back and tell James."

"James already knows. We ran into Pete on our way up here."

"The Monahans have already suffered too much at the hands of the Dawkins family."

"I have a notion it's the Dawkinses' turn to suffer at the hands of James Monahan."

* * *

The people of the band knew him as Badger Boy because he had a badger's belligerent response when other boys picked on him. And pick on him they had, in the beginning, for he seemed a misfit among those near his own age. His eyes were blue where theirs were brown or black, his skin lighter than theirs. He had found that the best way to stop others from bedeviling him was to hit back stronger than he was struck, resorting to a preemptive strike from time to time to keep his tormentors off balance.

Gradually they had learned to show him respect, though it was obvious that he had not been born of The People.

He had only hazy recollections of a time when he was not living among the Comanches. He was dimly aware, more from stories heard than from things remembered, that he had been taken in a raid on a
teibo
settlement when he was no more than four or five summers old. He remembered his Comanche father, known as Buffalo Caller. No one spoke that name anymore because it was the way of The People not to voice the names of the dead lest their spirits be disturbed.

He vaguely remembered a Texan father and mother. The years had all but erased any memory of what they looked like or anything they had said. Yet, buried somewhere deep in his consciousness was a faint memory of raw terror that came to him now and again as in a dream. He knew within reason that his white parents had been killed, for they would not otherwise have yielded him up. None of The People had ever told him anything of his origins. He sometimes wished he could recall more. That remembered fear rose up as a barrier, blocking him from probing deeper into the dark shadows of his past.

Buffalo Caller had taken him as a son but all too soon had died a warrior's death at the hands of the rangers. Steals the Ponies had shouldered the responsibility of becoming both brother and father to the boy. He had taught Badger Boy how to make a boy-size bow and the arrows that went with it, how to ride, how to hunt. He had refined the youngster's fighting skills, though most had come instinctively as a defense against other boys tempted to taunt an outsider.

Now they stepped aside rather than face his fists, or sometimes a leather quirt or heavy stick, whatever he could lay his hands on. Older people often said within his hearing that he might well become the fiercest warrior of them all. But they added that he had to wait, to bide his time and get his full growth.

He thought he had waited long enough. He had listened to his brother and other young warriors make plans for a raid on the Texan settlements, and he wanted to go.

The thought seemed only to amuse Steals the Ponies. Condescendingly he pulled one of the boy's long braids. "Your legs are still too short. You could not keep up."

"But you will be riding, not walking. My legs are long enough for riding a war pony.

"A short-legged pony perhaps."

Badger Boy felt anger rising hot in his face. Steals the Ponies took the idea as a joke, but Badger Boy was in earnest. "I would not fall behind. If I do, you can leave me. I can find the way by myself."

"The Texans would laugh at us. They would say The People must have no warriors left if they bring a boy on a mission of war."

"I hear that Mexican Talker is going. He is not but this much taller than me." Badger Boy made a gesture with both hands to illustrate the small difference. Mexican Talker, like himself, had been brought into the band as a captive, taken as a boy in a raid on a Mexican village. He was dark-skinned and black-eyed, so that strangers looking upon him could easily assume he was Comanche by blood. Only when he spoke would they know otherwise, because he still had the accent of one who had learned another language first. Badger Boy had a bit of the same problem. A few words never came out quite the way he intended. People said it was because of his Texan birth.

"Mexican Talker is older than you. He has made his quest and found his medicine. No, Badger Boy, you must wait awhile longer."

Badger Boy reluctantly conceded to himself that his brother would not allow him to ride out with the others when they invaded the white men's settlements. So Badger Boy began planning how he would slip out of the encampment and go anyway.