[Texas Rangers 03] - The Way of the Coyote (15 page)

"Kind of mean, don't you think?" Shanty tried to sound dubious, but Andy could see mischief in his eyes.

"Not half mean enough for the likes of Gaskin."

Though he doubted that Fowler or Summerville would show up so soon, he set a trap that evening just inside the smokehouse door. Entering in darkness, the thief was not likely to see it until he put his foot in it.

Andy checked on the trap the next morning. It was just as he had left it. For safety he tripped it. He set it again the second night, and again no one came.

The third night Andy awakened to a loud cry of surprise and pain. He stepped out onto the dog run in time to see a spider-legged figure dancing furiously in the dim light of the moon, a chain clanking as it dragged behind him.

The voice was Fowler Gaskin's. A second voice quavered. "What's the matter, Uncle Fowler?"

Gaskin launched a formidable string of profanity. "Fetch my horse, you damned idiot!" Howling, he dropped to the ground and labored to free his foot. He cast the trap as far as he could throw it and limped to the horse Summerville led up.

"You sons of bitches!" he shouted toward the cabin. His voice was shrill. "You dirty sons of bitches!" He fired a parting shot toward the cabin. Andy heard the slug smack into a log.

He grinned. "Fowler Gaskin, that'll teach you to stop suckin' eggs."

* * *

He had not seen Rusty's black horse Alamo in a couple of days and set out after breakfast to search for it. Toward noon he found it with a couple of the neighbors' plow horses grazing in a draw, tributary to the river. "Come on, boy," he said, dropping a rawhide loop over Alamo's neck, "you better stay closer to home or somebody like Fowler Gaskin is liable to hook you to a plow."

He expected to see Shanty working in the field or the garden, but instead he was at the cabin, loading something into one of two wagons that stood nearby. Two men were leading harnessed teams up from the river, where they had evidently been taken to drink.

One of the men was tall Tom Blessing. The other, who looked much like him but was younger, Andy recognized as a son. Blessing saw Andy coming but continued leading his team to the front wagon.

Andy dismounted and extended his hand. "Howdy, Tom." He nodded at the younger Blessing. "What brings you-all over here?"

Tom Blessing's face was grim. "Bad news. Clyde and Buddy Oldham are fixin' to take over this farm and everything on it."

Andy felt as if his stomach were turning over. He remembered what the deputy had told him. He had not really believed it could happen. "How can they do that?"

"I heard about it in town. Clyde claims the records show that Rusty is way behind on his taxes."

"Rusty's paid all the taxes they asked for. It took just about everything he got for sendin' cattle north."

"Tax records are easy to alter if you've got the keys to the courthouse. My son and I hoped we'd beat the Oldhams out here and haul off everything Rusty might want to keep."

Shanty came out with an armful of blankets. Blessing's son had Rusty's plow in his wagon, along with all the harness and tools from the shed.

Tom Blessing said, "Pity we can't take cabin and all."

Blood hot in his face, Andy demanded, "What about the field? The crops are half grown already."

Blessing replied, "Pity, but I reckon the Oldhams'll get the benefit of all that. You want to help me empty the smokehouse? No need in leavin' the meat to them."

Andy trembled with outrage. "And I thought Fowler Gaskin was a thief. Ain't there somethin' we can do?"

"I don't know what. Clyde has got the scalawag government on his side."

"We could shoot him," Andy said.

Shanty shook his gray head sadly. "That's the Comanche in you talkin'. Killin' ain't the way the Lord meant for folks to doctor what ails them."

"Once it's done, it's damned sure permanent."

"So is a hangin' rope, and that's what you'd get. Them Oldham brothers are like a pair of hungry wolves."

"No, they're just coyotes."

"Anyway, it ain't for me and you to decide. Best let Mr. Rusty know what's happened and see what he wants."

They soon had the two wagons loaded with about everything not too heavy to lift or too bulky to carry. Andy said, "It's up to me to go tell Rusty about this. He ain't goin' to take it kindly."

Blessing nodded. "Kindly or not, he'll have to take it for now. Maybe someday when things change he'll find a way to get the farm back. At least there's this much the Oldhams won't get."

Andy gazed in the direction of the plot where Rusty's Daddy Mike and Mother Dora lay. "He won't even own the ground where his folks are buried."

Blessing's expression was grave. "I can imagine what old Mike would say. He was a fire-eater, that one. But it finally got him killed." He climbed onto the wagon.

Shanty asked, "What about me? Where will I go?"

Blessing replied, "With me, Shanty. You can stay at my place 'til things straighten out."

Shanty hesitated. "Andy, you goin' to go tell Mr. Rusty?"

"He's got to know."

"Like as not them Oldhams'll figure on that. They'll follow you. They won't be satisfied 'til they've killed him dead."

"I'll wait 'til night, and I'll ride in the edge of the river a ways so they'll have hell findin' my tracks." He reached up to shake Shanty's hand, then Blessing's. "I don't know when I'll be comin' back. A lot'll depend on what Rusty wants to do."

Blessing said, "Tell him we'll be back and gather up all of his livestock that we can find. We'll drift them west to some empty country I know of. I doubt the Oldhams will find them any time soon."

Andy stood hunched in sadness, watching the wagons roll away. For six years this place had been home to him, at least the only home he had. He felt the same emptiness as when he had turned his back on Comancheria. There were times when he wondered if dark spirits dogged his steps and did not mean for him to have a home.

The cabin appeared almost empty, bereft of most of its handmade furniture except for the beds, too cumbersome for the wagons. The cooking ware, the cups and plates, were gone. The smokehouse was empty except for a large slab of bacon Andy had saved for his trip north. He had kept back salt, coffee, and a small sack of flour so he could make bread on the trail. These he carried out to the corral and placed in a wooden trough near his saddle. He planned to ride the Brackett sorrel, Long Red, and use Alamo as a packhorse. For no amount of money would he leave Rusty's favorite mount to be taken by the Oldhams or perhaps Fowler Gaskin, whichever showed up first.

Clyde and Buddy Oldham arrived awhile before sundown, accompanied by a sour-faced deputy. Clyde dismounted and waved some folded papers in Andy's face. "I got eviction papers for Rusty Shannon. Since I know he ain't here, I'm servin' them on you. These papers tell you to vacate."

Andy feigned ignorance. "What do you mean, vacate?"

Buddy spoke up sharply. "He means get the hell off, and the quicker the better." Buddy lifted the quirt from the horn of his saddle and raised it.

Clyde blocked the blow with his arm. "He's still got a mark from when you done that before, and it didn't do no good. He may be half Indian, but I expect he understands English when it's spoke good and plain. Put your stuff together, boy. You're leavin' here."

"Where do you expect me to go?"

"Back to the Comanches, for all we care. That's probably where you belong."

Andy knew argument was futile, but he did not want to give in to them without raising a little dust first. "You've got no right to this place. It's Rusty's, and it belonged to his folks before that. What if I don't want to leave?"

"Then I'll turn Buddy loose with that quirt. He's only got one arm, but you know it's a strong one."

While the deputy waited with Andy, Clyde and his brother walked up to the cabin. They paused a moment at the dog run to look at the empty iron hooks on which fresh meat often hung, wrapped in canvas. They then went into the kitchen. Clyde was out again in a moment, crossing quickly over to the bedroom side. He stayed there but little longer before striding down from the dog run and marching angrily toward Andy.

"What the hell has happened here? Where's everything gone?"

Andy continued to feign ignorance. "I been away most of the day. Maybe Fowler Gaskin paid us a visit. He never leaves without takin' somethin'.

"Gaskin hell! Everything on this place belongs to me. These papers say so."

"You just now served them. 'Til you did that, I reckon everything still belonged to Rusty." Andy knew little about legalities, but that seemed logical enough.

The deputy put in, "I told you I seen a couple of wagons earlier in the day. They left here loaded."

Buddy declared, "Somebody tipped this Indian off. Whoever it was needs a good stompin'."

Clyde said, "We'll save the stompin' for Rusty Shannon, when we find him."

Buddy said eagerly, "Stomp on him awhile, then shoot him."

Clyde looked toward the field. "What was in the house wasn't worth much anyhow. They couldn't carry off that plowed ground out yonder. It's ours.

He turned again to Andy. "We'll be back first thing in the mornin'. You better not be here. Come on, Buddy, we're headed to town."

Andy watched them so long as they were in sight. Though they left by the town road, he had a strong hunch they would circle back and keep a lookout on him. Clyde was surely shrewd enough to guess that Andy would go immediately to notify Rusty what had happened. All he and his brother had to do was follow.

He raked banked coals in the fireplace and coaxed the flames with dry shavings, then built up a blaze with larger pieces of wood. He broiled bacon on a stick and waited for night.

In the dark of the moon he packed blankets and food on Alamo and saddled Long Red. He had built up a big fire, hoping the watchers would think he was still in the cabin. For a while he had entertained the notion of burning the cabin so the Oldhams could not have it. He gave that up as a bad idea. The cabin was Rusty's main tie to the memory of Mike and Dora Shannon. He would not want it destroyed, even to keep it from the hands of his enemies.

Besides, Andy held out hope that Rusty would eventually find a way to get the farm back. He would appreciate having the cabin remain intact.

He swung into the saddle and tugged on the lead rope. "Come on, Red, Alamo. We're goin' north."

T
here was no clearly marked trail at first, but Andy did not need one. He had confidence in his sense of direction and his memory for landmarks. As he had told Shanty, he rode a couple of miles in the edge of the river, then found a gravelly bank on which he could quit the water without leaving obvious tracks. He traveled until he figured it was past midnight, then halted for a dry camp. He had eaten his supper in the cabin.

He hoped the Oldhams had not noted his departure. Even if they guessed his direction and started at daylight, he should be several hours ahead of them.

Awakening at daybreak, he glanced around to be certain where he was. He had a good memory for places. More than once during the years he had lived with Rusty, he had become helplessly homesick for the plains and had slipped away alone, returning to Comanche land. There he had lived off the land and watched The People's camps from afar, wishing but not daring to enter. He had been like an estranged family member who still felt the kinship but knew the path to reconciliation was too treacherous to try.

He prepared a hasty breakfast of bacon and bread wrapped around a stick and broiled over a low flame. The bread tasted flat, so he salted it a little and made it more palatable. Shanty had taught him how to bake corn dodgers on the flat side of a hoe, but here he had neither hoe nor cornmeal. Looking behind him he saw no sign of pursuit, but he was uneasy. He felt instinctively that the Oldhams were back there somewhere. They might be greedy, they might be vicious, but they were not altogether stupid. Sooner or later they were bound to cut his trail.

Andy followed a route he had ridden with Rusty. He remembered he had also ridden this way, though southbound, following his Comanche brother Steals the Ponies and several other young warriors intent upon a horse-stealing raid. Because they considered him too young they had not let him ride with them, but he had followed at a distance. He had not allowed himself to be discovered until they were too deep in the Texan country to send him back. Misfortune had dogged him, however. In a running fight his horse fell on him, breaking his leg. That was when Rusty Shannon found him and carried him home.

Andy had relived that event a thousand times in his mind. He toyed with the fantasy that it had never happened, that he had never reentered the white man's world and traveled the white man's road. He often wondered where he would be now and what he would be doing. By this time he fancied that The People would have accepted him as a warrior and a skilled hunter of buffalo. He would ride with pride through camp after each exploit, knowing The People were watching him and telling stories of his deeds.

He had been called Badger Boy, but surely by now he would have earned a nobler name reflecting his status as a man. He would not be just that Indian-looking young'un, Andy Pickard, getting into fights at the settlement, a kid whose blood kin had rejected him and who lived as a ward of Rusty Shannon. Among the Comanches, he would be a man worth noticing.

At least now he was on a mission worthy of him, to warn Rusty of danger and perhaps to help protect him from his enemies. The responsibility was heavy, a little daunting, yet exhilarating.

Late on the first full day of travel he came upon a creek. He had known it would be there, yet he had not allowed himself to give it much thought beforehand. Now, suddenly, the sight of it took him back six years. He remembered what Rusty had shown him then, and he shuddered. This was a bad place.

His instincts pressed him to cross the creek hurriedly and ride on, but something within would not allow him that avoidance. It was as if other hands took hold of the reins and guided the sorrel horse against his will.