[Texas Rangers 02] - Badger Boy (5 page)

The sergeant called after him, "We're a long ways from Austin and farther yet from Richmond. A day or two oughtn't to make much difference."

Billings faced back around. "Need I remind you, Sergeant, that I am in charge here?"

"I never forget that. I was just thinkin' ..."

"You are not here to think. You are here to obey orders."

"I don't question your authority. I just meant to remind you ..." He stopped in the middle of the sentence.

Billings and a reluctant Captain Whitfield returned to the captain's tent. Sergeant Forrest stayed behind. He asked Rusty, "Are you sure you could take us back where you saw the Indians?"

"I could, but they wouldn't be there anymore. I figure they're headin' off yonder"—he pointed to the southeast—"where the settlements are thicker."

"If we angled across, shouldn't we run into them, or at least come upon their tracks?"

"You're forgettin' the lieutenant's orders."

"I never forget orders. But sometimes I ignore them when I see a good reason."

"You don't seem to have much fear for authority."

"It was family connections that won the lieutenant his commission. I got these stripes on the battlefield. And this wooden leg besides. After all that, there's damned little that son of a bitch can do to scare me." He walked toward the tent.

Rusty decided he was going to like the sergeant after all. As for Billings, he remembered that Daddy Mike came home from the Mexican War with a jaundiced view of lieutenants.

Rusty discovered Len Tanner silently watching him. Tanner said, "Accordin' to the sergeant, Billings has never seen war against the Yankees. Never even been out of Texas." He waited for Rusty to comment, but Rusty had nothing to say. Tanner added, "How come men that never went to war theirselves are so anxious to send other men there?"

* * *

The last patrol arrived about noon, bringing the company's strength to eleven men. Captain Whitfield walked among the new arrivals. "Get yourselves some dinner as quick as you can, then saddle fresh horses." He gave Lieutenant Billings a defiant look. "We're goin' after Indians."

Billings stepped in front of him, his right hand dropping to the butt of a pistol. "The hell you are! I am taking these men to Austin."

Whitfield spread his feet apart in a stance that said he would not be moved. Rusty had never seen him more determined. "This is my camp, Lieutenant, and you are a long way from home."

Billings whirled around, seeking the sergeant. "Forrest, put this man under arrest."

Forrest shook his head. "The captain makes good sense. I'd advise you to listen to him."

The lieutenant started to draw the pistol from its holster. Rusty took a long step forward and grabbed his hand. He twisted the pistol from Billings's grasp. The officer stared at him in fury, then turned upon the sergeant. "I'll have you court-martialed for this."

"Do it and be damned. I never intended to make a career out of the army anyway. Tell them anything you want to. Tell them I got drunk and dallied with lewd women, if that's your pleasure."

Looking around as if seeking help, Billings saw only hostile faces. He gave in grudgingly. "I won't forget this. I could have every one of you shot."'

Forrest said, "You're a long way from Austin. If you want to get there, you'd better talk less and listen more." He reached for the lieutenant's pistol. Rusty gave it to him. "I know you've never had to face the Yankees. You ever been in an Indian fight:"

Billings calmed a little. "No. I have been denied both pleasures."

"I've done both, and there's damned little pleasure in either one. You can go with us or stay in camp, whichever suits you best."

"I'll go, if only to keep some Indian from killing you before I can have you properly shot."

Forrest handed the pistol back to the lieutenant, who recognized reality and holstered it.

Captain Whitfield said, "This is no time to fight amongst ourselves. If we can turn back a raid, we'll save some settler families a lot of grief. That ought to count for somethin', Lieutenant."

Billings glared at Forrest. "We'll see how it counts in a court-martial."

* * *

Whitfield delegated two rangers to remain at camp. One had reported in sick. The other was the aging Oscar Pickett, exhausted by the long patrol in which he had just participated. Rusty had to leave Alamo behind, for the horse was too tired to undertake another trip. He picked a dun confiscated from a thief caught running stolen horses down from the Indian territory. The rangers had chosen to keep most of the mounts because they lacked the manpower to go looking for their rightful owners. That had been Captain Whitfield's stated justification, at least.

The day was more than half gone. Rusty thought they would need the devil's own luck to find the Indians before dark. He did not feel that lucky. Captain Whitfield sent him out in front to scout, though any ranger could have led the way as well. Where they might connect with the Indians was anyone's guess.

Billings came forward and rode beside him awhile. Rusty suspected the lieutenant was watching him to be sure he did not seize an opportunity to slip away and avoid Confederate service. The officer seemed to have banked the coals of his anger, though he would probably fan them back to life when the mission was over.

Rusty said, "This ain't the healthiest place for you to be."

Billings growled, "As long as I am here, I want to get the first shot at the Indians."

"Like as not,
they'll
fire the first shot. And if they hit anybody, it'll be whoever is up front."

Billings contemplated that possibility and dropped back to rejoin the others. Sergeant Forrest caught up to Rusty awhile later. He rode with his peg leg secured by a leather loop tied above the stirrup. "What did you say that threw a booger into the lieutenant?"

"Just told him the man out in front is usually the first one shot."

Forrest looked back with distaste. "I wouldn't mind if he
did
get shot. Just a little bit, not enough to kill him. He would be a better educated man.

"Somebody like him has got no business carryin' authority over anybody. How come he's never gone back East to fight the Yankees, since he seems to hate them so bad?"

"The same family connections that got him his commission. He claims he's more valuable here, hunting down conscription dodgers. I'll have to admit that he's a human ferret."

"Every man to the job he's best at." Rusty stared ahead a minute, searching the horizon for any sign of movement. "Can he really get you court-martialed?"

"I've got connections of my own, and he knows it." Forrest frowned. "But
you'd
best watch him. He's got a special grudge against you. You might not make it all the way to Austin."

"Not if I get a chance to slip away."

"I'll help you if I can. But first we've got this job to see after." Billings shifted his weight. Rusty suspected that riding with the wooden leg presented some problems in balance.

Rusty had never been to Austin. He could only imagine what it was like. He asked, "What's goin' on back yonder in the settled country?"

"Did you ever see an old quilt coming to pieces at the seams, scattering threads and cotton everywhere? That's Texas. The whole Confederacy too, I would suspect. Money's not worth anything. People barter whatever they've got to get whatever they need, if they can find it at all. Local governments are falling apart. "There'd be riots in the streets, only there isn't much left to riot for."

Rusty had surmised as much from rumors and from bits and pieces of news that had drifted into camp. "High time the war was over."

"Pretty soon now, I think."

Forrest watched while Rusty dismounted to study a set of tracks. Rusty soon determined that they were made by a shod horse headed west. Probably a fugitive from conscription, not the Indians they sought.

Forrest said, "You haven't spent your whole life trailing Comanches. What did you do before?"

"Seems like a long time ago, but I growed up on a farm. Farmin' is what I was best at, 'til other things got in the way."

They've gotten in the way for all of us. We're alike in that. But we don't have the same loyalties, do we?"

Rusty knew, but he asked anyway. "What do you mean?"

"I suspect you've stayed in the frontier service to keep from going into the Army of the Confederation."

"I was just a boy, but I remember how hard Texas fought to get into the Union. I've never understood why it got so hell-bent to leave it."

"Slavery was part of it."

"I've got no slaves. Neighbor named Isaac York has one he calls Shanty. He's the only one I know."

"Some of the war has to do with rights that Washington tried to take away from us. Those people back East live a different life than we do out here. What gives them the right to tell us what we can and can't do?"

Rusty shrugged. "Richmond has done the same thing. I ought to have the right to stay on the farm and mind my own business, but the Confederate government won't let me. It wants me to go fight in a war that I didn't start and didn't want."

"There are times when duty overrules our individual rights."

"If we're not fightin' for our rights, then what
are
we fightin' for?"

"I can't answer that. I'm only a sergeant. What's left of one, anyway."

"You lost that leg fightin' Yankees?"

"A mini
é
ball. Came close to dying of blood poisoning."

As Rusty had expected, darkness descended without their seeing any trace of their quarry. They made camp without fresh meat. The captain had forbidden any shooting that might alert the Indians.

In the early-morning sun soon after breaking camp, Rusty saw the Indians three hundred yards ahead, strung out in single and double file. He quickly raised his hand, signaling those behind him to halt. He did not look back, but he heard the horses as Whitfield and Forrest spurred up to join him. Lieutenant Billings seemed to have rethought his ambition to shoot the first Indian. He stayed behind.

Rusty pointed. "They've seen us. They're pullin' into a line."

Whitfield's hand jerked up and down as he counted. "Eighteen. They outnumber us damned near two to one." He looked at Forrest. "Any suggestions?"

"My old commander always said, `When in doubt, charge."'

Rusty could not see a good defensive position for either side. Rangers and Indians were all in the open.

Whitfield asked Forrest, "Did your commander always win?"

"He did 'til they killed him."

Whitfield considered. "Indians can count, same as we can. Looks to me like our best chance is to hand them a surprise."

Rusty said, "They've already seen us. How can we surprise them?"

"By doin' what they don't expect." Whitfield turned to Forrest. "You ready to take your old commander's advice?"

"Nothing is better than a good cavalry charge to throw a scare into your adversaries."

Whitfield turned to his rangers. "Check your cinches. You wouldn't want your saddle to turn."

The men dismounted and drew their girths up tight. Rusty glanced toward Billings. The lieutenant appeared to have taken ill.

Forrest noticed it, too. His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Pretend they're Yankees."

Billings made no reply. He wiped a sweaty hand on the gray leg of his trousers. Austin must have been looking like paradise to him.

Whitfield removed his hat and bowed his head. "Lord, we're fixin' to get ourselves into a right smart of a fight. We hope you're on our side in this, but if you can't be, please don't be helpin' them Indians. A-men."

Forming a line, the rangers and two conscription officers put their horses into a long trot. After a hundred yards they spurred into a run. The Indians shouted defiance, waving bows and the few rifles they had. Wind roared in Rusty's ears. The Comanche line began to waver as the rangers neared. Rusty sensed the Indians' confusion. Captain Whitfield had called it right; they had not expected a determined charge by an outnumbered enemy.

The rangers were fifty yards away when the Indian line split apart. A few warriors fired rifles or launched arrows wildly, then followed the others in disorganized retreat. The ranger line swept through the opening. Pistols and rifles cracked. The rangers pulled their horses around. Whitfield stood in his stirrups and shouted, "We can whip them. Give them another run, boys!"

This time there was no Indian line. Warriors were scattered, addled by the audacity of the inferior force. Three lay on the ground. A fourth was afoot, chasing his runaway horse.

Whitfield ordered, "Keep them broke up. Don't let them get back together."

The rangers themselves broke up, pursuing small groups of Indians in various directions. From the first, Rusty had concentrated on one warrior he surmised might be the party leader. He brought his horse to a quick stop, stepped to the ground, and squeezed off a shot. Through the smoke he saw the Indian jerk, then tumble from his horse.

Rusty started to reload. Billings spurred past him, shouting, "I'll finish him!"

The Indian was not ready to be finished. He rose up on shaky legs and fired a rifle. Billings's horse plunged headlong to the ground. Billings lay pinned, a leg caught beneath the struggling animal. Pressing one bloody hand against a wound in his side, the Indian limped toward him. He held a knife.

Billings cried out for help.

Rusty finished reloading, then remounted and put the dun horse into a run. The Comanche saw him coming and moved faster. Billings's voice lifted almost to a scream. "For God's sake, somebody!"

Rusty knew a running shot was chancy, but if not stopped the warrior would reach the lieutenant ahead of him. He brought the stock to his shoulder and braced the heavy rifle with his left hand. The recoil almost unseated him. The powder smoke burned in his nostrils.

The Indian fell, then started crawling. Billings struggled but still could not free himself.

Rusty slid his horse to a stop, dropped the reins, and swung the rifle with both hands. He felt the Indian's skull break under the impact of the heavy barrel. His stomach turned.