Ranger's Trail

by Kelton, Elmer

• ISBN13: 9780765305718
• ISBN10: 0765305712
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2002-09-07
• Publisher: Forge Books

Summary

In the spring of 1874 the Ranger companies that protect settlers against Indian raids and outlaw bands are being reorganized and David "Rusty" Shannon is the most sought-after veteran for reenlistment.But Shannon has new goals for his life: He is in love with Josie Monahan, daughter of the family that adopted him, and he intends to marry Josie and take her to his farm on the Colorado River. Rusty also feels affection and responsibility for Andy Pickard, a headstrong teenager he rescued from captivity among the Comanche--just as Rusty himself was rescued as a red-haired boy decades before.Then an unspeakable tragedy--the murder of his beloved Josie--changes Rusty's plans for a quiet farmer's life and alters his peace-loving character. Bent on revenge, he relentlessly trails Corey Bascom, son of an outlaw family and the man Rusty believes is Josie's killer.But the trail Rusty is following may be leading him to the wrong man.Set in the tumultuous Reconstruction period of Texas history, Ranger's Trail continues Elmer Kelton's chronicles of the origins of the renowned Texas Rangers, told as fiction but historically accurate in every detail and written by a favorite son of Texas.

Author Biography

Elmer Kelton, author of more than forty novels, grew up on a ranch near Crane, Texas, and earned a journalism degree from the University of Texas. His first novel, Hot Iron, was published in 1956. For forty-two years he had a parallel career in agricultural journalism.

Among his awards have been seven Spurs from Western Writers of America and four Western Heritage awards from the National Cowboy Hall of Fame. Among his best-known works have been The Time It Never Rained and The Good Old Boys, the latter made into a television film starring Tommy Lee Jones.

He served in the infantry in World War II. He and his wife, Ann, a native of Austria, live in San Angelo, Texas. They have three children, four grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.

Table of Contents

1
 
 
Austin, Texas, January 1874
 
The election had gone smoothly except for certain extra-legal shenanigans perpetrated by both sides. Those were a normal feature of Texas politics and came as no surprise. By contrast the aftermath was chaotic enough to try the patience of saints, if there had been any. Rusty Shannon had encountered few saints in reconstruction Texas.
He slow-trotted his dun horse westward along a rutted wagon road skirting the edge of the Colorado River and wished he were back home on the farm where he belonged. On one side of him rode Sheriff Tom Blessing, in his sixties but still blacksmith-strong, solid as a block of oak timber. On the other, Andy Pickard whistled in a country boy's youthful awe and marveled at the town just ahead. His urban experience had been limited to a few small crossroads settlements.
Andy declared, “I had no idea Austin was this big. Must be three—maybe four—thousand people here. I never saw such a place in my life.”
No one knew exactly how long a life that had been. Andy had been orphaned before he was old enough to retain clear memories. Rusty's best judgment was that he might be eighteen or nineteen, allowing some leeway on one side or the other. Strenuous outdoor labor and the excesses of Texas weather had given him a mature appearance beyond his years. He had a young man's seasoned face but had not lost the questing eyes of a boy eager to ride over the hill and see the other side. Girls seemed to consider him handsome. Andy seemed to have no objection to their thinking so.
Rusty turned up his frayed old coat collar against a cold wind coming off of the river. He had been wearing that coat for more than ten years, always intending to buy a new one someday when he felt he had a few dollars to spare but always “making do” for one more winter. He said, “San Antonio's bigger. I was there once.”
His face, browned and chiseled with premature lines, was that of a man forty or more. Actually he was in his mid-thirties, but most had been hard years spent in sun and wind, riding with frontier rangers or walking behind mules and a plow. He said, “Got no use for San Antonio, though. It's overrun with gamblers and whiskey peddlers and pickpockets.”
Tom Blessing declared, “Austin's worse. It's overrun with lawyers.”
Andy had seen little of gamblers, whiskey peddlers, pickpockets or lawyers, but he was itching to start. He told Rusty, “You always say I need more learnin'. I'll bet I could learn a lot here.”
“Mostly stuff you oughtn't to know.”
Andy was well schooled in the ways of nature, but Rusty had worried about his limited book education. Andy had caught a little here and a little there as country teachers came, stayed a while, then drifted on. Rusty, in his time, had had the advantage of coaching by a foster mother. There had been no woman to help teach Andy. At least he could read a newspaper, and he had an aptitude with figures. He was not easily cheated, nor was he a forgiving victim. Most who tried once never cared to do it a second time.
Andy said, “I doubt I'd get bored in a place like this. Bet there's somethin' goin' on all the time.”
In Rusty's view, that was the trouble. His idea of a perfect day was a quiet one. He had finally begun having a lot of those, thanks to the farm. “Most of it you wouldn't want any part of. Country folks couldn't abide the crowdin'. You soon get tired of people trompin' on your toes all the time.”
He was here against his will and better judgment. He had planned a journey north toward old Fort Belknap to visit the Monahan family and to bring Josie Monahan back with him as his wife. But Tom had asked him to make this trip, and it was against Rusty's nature to refuse a good friend. Tom had ridden often with Daddy Mike Shannon in old times when there was Indian trouble. He had introduced Rusty to the rangers at a crisis point when Rusty had badly needed somewhere to go. Rusty often said he would follow Tom into hell with a bucket of water. He had, once or twice. Austin might not be hell, but Rusty did not consider it heaven, either.
He wished he had not given in to Andy's plea that he be allowed to come along. He dreaded the temptations this town might present to someone no longer a boy but not quite yet a man. Rusty had taken on the responsibility of a foster brother after Andy's nearest; known relative, an uncle, had rejected him. At times, like now, it had been an uneasy burden to carry.
He surveyed the town with apprehension. “Tom, reckon how we'll find your friend amongst all those people?”
“Maybe we'll get lucky and stumble into him. Otherwise, he's likely puttin' up at a wagon yard. We'll ask around.”
Tom had been a county sheriff before reconstruction authorities threw him out of office for having served the Texas Confederate government. The recent election had restored his badge after the former Confederates finally regained their right to vote. Another sheriff, a friend of his, had sent word that he was badly needed in Austin. He had not explained his reasons. He had just said to hurry and to bring help. Tom had immediately called on Rusty, respecting his law enforcement experience before war's end had caused the ranger companies to disintegrate.
Andy had jumped at a chance to quit the farm a while and see the city. To Rusty he had argued, “You're liable to need somebody to watch your back. You made some enemies while you were a ranger.”
Rusty suspected Andy's motivation had less to do with protectiveness than with an urge to see something new and enjoy some excitement.
Because it was the dead of winter, Rusty and Andy had little farmwork that could not be postponed. Last year's crop was long since harvested, and this year's planting had to await warm ground. It would have been a good time for Rusty to get his red hair trimmed, then take a several-days' ride up to the Monahan place and ask Josie a question he had postponed much too long. Instead, he found himself approaching Austin and wondering why.
During ranger service that often took him far from home, Rusty had remained at heart a farmer with a strong tie to land he had known since boyhood. Andy empathized but had never been that dedicated to the soil. A tumultuous boyhood had given him a restless spirit. He welcomed any excuse to saddle Long Red and travel over new ground, to cross rivers he had not previously known.
“It's the Indian in him,” Rusty had heard people say. “You never saw an Indian stay in one place long unless he was dead.”
Andy was not Indian, at least by blood, but when he was a small boy the Comanches had taken him. They had held him through several of his vital formative years. Rusty had found him injured and helpless and returned him to the white man's world. But Andy had never given up all of his Indian ways.
Rusty hoped youthful curiosity would be satisfied quickly. He doubted that Andy would remain contented for long in a city like Austin any more than he was likely to be content spending all his life on the farm.
A squad of black soldiers drew Rusty's attention. He and Andy and Tom had drawn theirs as well. He murmured, “They're studyin' us like we might be outlaws.”
Tom muttered in a deep voice, “They're lookin' at our guns. They're always afraid some old rebel may take a notion to declare war again.” A few had, from time to time.
Rusty half expected the soldiers to stop them, but they simply watched in stone-faced silence as the three riders passed by and turned into a long street, which a sign on the comer said was Congress. At the head of it, well to the north, stood an imposing wooden structure larger than any other Rusty could see.
Andy's eyes were wide. “Is that the capitol? The place where they make all the laws?”
Tom said, “That's the place. Fixin' to be a lot of different faces there now that we've elected a new governor. Be a lot of carpetbaggers huntin' new country.”
Rusty had mixed feelings about the outsiders who had crowded into Texas after the war, hungry for opportunity. On the positive side they had brought money to a state drained dry after four years of debilitating conflict. On the negative side some had brought a bottomless hunger for anything they could grab and went to any lengths of stealth or violence necessary to satisfy it.
Now thousands of ex-Confederates, disenfranchised after the war, had finally recovered their voting rights. By a margin of two to one they had defeated the Union-backed reconstruction governor, Edmund J. Davis. They had voted in Richard Coke, a former Confederate army officer and one of their own. Perhaps that transition accounted for the large numbers of men standing along the street as if waiting for something to happen, Rusty thought. It did not, however, account for so many being heavily burdened by a variety of firearms.
Andy grinned. “Looks like the war is fixin' to start again.” War had been a central fact of life among the Comanches, often sought after when it did not come on its own.
Rusty frowned. “I'm commencin' to wonder what we've ridden into.” He reined his dun horse over to a man leaning against a cedar hitching post. “Say, friend, what's the big attraction in town?”
The man straightened, fixing suspicious eyes on Rusty, then on Andy and Tom. “I reckon you know, or you wouldn't be here. Did Governor Davis send for you?”
“I wouldn't know Edmund J. Davis from George Washington.”
The man said, “A lot of Davis's friends have come to town includin' his old state police. They're all totin' guns. I see that you are, too.”
Rusty kept his right hand away from the pistol on his hip, avoiding any appearance of a threat. “We brought our guns because we came a long ways. We didn't know what we might run into, or who.”
“Just so you ain't one of them Davis police.”
Mention of the Davis police put a bad taste in Rusty's mouth. “I used to be a ranger, but I never was a state policeman.”
The governor's special police force—a mixture of white and black—had been organized as part of the state's reconstruction government, replacing the traditional rangers. Excesses had given the force a reputation for arrogance and brutality, arousing enmity in most Texans. Rusty had always felt that a majority were well intentioned, but a scattering of scoundrels overshadowed the law enforcement achievements of the rest.
A new legislature had recently abolished the state police to the relief of the citizenry and the consternation of Governor Davis.
The man said, “Local folks are naturally stirred up about so many strangers bringin' guns to town. Coke has been sworn in as governor, but Davis won't recognize him. Word has gone around that he has no intention of givin' up the office.”
“But the people voted him out.”
“He's declared the election unconstitutional.”
Tom's face reddened. “He can't. That's not legal.”
“He claims he's got the authority to say what's legal and what's not. Thinks he's the king of England, or maybe old Pharaoh.”
The occupying Union forces had given their handpicked governor dictatorial power. He had instituted worthwhile improvements, particularly to the educational system, yet Texans resented his issuing punitive executive orders from which they had no recourse. Though Davis was a Southerner and a longtime citizen of the state, most former Confederates felt that he belonged to the enemy. He had fled Texas early in the war, eventually becoming a brigadier general in the Union army. The governor's office had been his reward.
Now it appeared that he did not intend to give it up.
Tom said, “We hold no brief for Davis. We voted for Coke.” He glanced questioningly at Rusty. “At least I did.”
Rusty nodded. He, too, had voted for Coke because he felt it was time to shed the smothering reconstruction regime so Texas could work its own way back to order and stability.
“Then I'd advise you to either join Coke's militia or take care of your business and move out of town before the roof blows off of the capitol yonder.”
Pulling away, Rusty muttered to Tom, “I think I see why your sheriff friend asked you to come and bring help.”
“I've known him a long time. I couldn't turn him down.”
Tom's loyalty to a friend was such that he had reluctantly left an ailing wife at home to come on this mission. Rusty's loyalty to Tom did not allow him to refuse Tom's request, though he had planned to be marrying Josie Monahan about now. He said, “We're liable to get pulled into a fight that ain't ours. That whole damned war wasn't really ours.”
Like the late Sam Houston, Rusty had never favored secession from the Union, nor had he ever developed any allegiance to the Confederacy. One reason he had remained with the frontier rangers throughout the war was to avoid conscription into the rebel army. Even so, he had come to resent the oppressive federal occupation.
Tom frowned. “I wouldn't have asked you to come if I'd known we were ridin' into a situation like this. Maybe you and Andy better turn around and go home.”
Disappointed, Andy said, “We ain't hardly seen the city yet.”
Rusty said, “We've come this far, so we'll wait and size things up. Then we can go home if we're a mind to.”
Initially Tom had harbored reservations about the wisdom of the war, but once it began he had given his loyalty to Texas and the South without looking back. He said, “Davis got beat fair and square. If he was a proper gentleman he'd recognize the will of the people. He'd yield up the office.”
Andy said, “The Comanche way is simpler. A chief can't force anybody to do anything. If the people don't like him anymore they just quit payin' attention to him. No election, no fight, no nothin'.” He snorted. “And everybody claims white people are smarter.”
Andy's sorrel shied to one side, bumping against Rusty's dun. Two men burst off the sidewalk and into the dirt street, wildly swinging their fists. Immediately another man joined the fray, then two more, cursing, wrestling awkwardly. Foot and horse traffic stopped. Onlookers crowded around while the fight escalated.
Andy asked, “Whose side are we on?”
Rusty said, “Nobody's.” He saw little difference between the combatants except that some might be drunker than others. He said, “We'd best move on before some fool pulls a gun.” He found the way blocked by men rushing to watch the fight.
Faces were bloodied and shirts torn, but nobody drew a pistol or knife. Whatever the quarrel was about, the participants did not seem to consider it worth a killing.
A city policeman strode down the street, gave the situation a quick study, then stepped back to observe from a comfortable distance, hands in his pockets. Shortly a blue-clad army officer trotted his horse up beside the policeman. His sharp voice indicated he was used to people snapping to attention in his presence. “Aren't you going to stop this?”
The policeman did not take his hands from his pockets. “A man can get hurt messin' in where he wasn't asked. Long as they don't kill one another, I say let them have their fun.”
“You are paid to enforce the peace.”
“Not near enough. Ain't been any peace around here since this governor business came up. You want to stop the fight, go ahead.”
“The army is not supposed to interfere. This is a civilian matter.”
“And this here civilian is goin' into that grog shop yonder to have himself a drink. If anybody gets killed, come and fetch me.” The policeman turned away. The officer watched him in frustration, then turned his attention to the ongoing fight. A couple of the brawlers had had enough and crawled away to sit on the edge of the wooden sidewalk, there to nurse their wounds while the altercation went on. They were not missed.
Andy's eyes danced with excitement as his fists mimicked the movements of the belligerents. He had been in plenty of fights himself, usually instigated by other young men making fun of the ways he had learned from the Indians.
Rusty knew a good scrap when he saw one. This was not a good one. It was slow-footed and clumsy, loud but not likely to produce anything more serious than loose teeth, bruised knuckles, and maybe a flattened nose. He decided the policeman had been right in leaving bad nature to run its course.
Onlookers' comments bore out his assumption that some of the fighters were Davis men. Others supported Coke. The fight slowly staggered to a standstill. The Coke men appeared to carry the victory, such as it was. They moved away in a triumphant group, weaving toward the grog shop the policeman had chosen. Their opponents dragged themselves to the sidewalk and slumped there, exhausted.
The fight had energized Andy. He said, “Some folks take their politics serious.”
Tom Blessing nodded grimly. “With good reason. Davis's men tromped on everybody that got in their way. Stole half the state of Texas. Now comes the day of reckonin', and they ain't willin' to 'fess up.”
The three rode north up the wide street, Rusty warily eyeing the armed men scattered all along. He saw no reason anyone would shoot at him on purpose, but he had learned long ago that the innocent bystander was usually the first one hurt. The more innocent, the more likely.
They reined up short of the capitol building. Several men stood shoulder to shoulder at the front door, holding rifles. They had a military bearing but did not wear uniforms. Rusty surmised they were former Confederate soldiers who had not forgotten the regimens learned in war.
He said, “Looks like they're guardin' the state treasury.”
Tom said, “Too late for that. Talk is that Davis's adjutant general slipped away with it and sailed for Europe.” He stepped down from the saddle and lifted the reins for Andy to hold. “You-all better stay here so we don't accidentally provoke somebody into somethin' rash. I'll walk up there and see what the game is.” He unstrapped his pistol belt and hung it over the saddle horn as an indication that his intentions were benign.
Andy gazed southward back down Congress Avenue, where substantial buildings lined each side. Rusty assumed he was marveling at the variety of merchandise available here for anyone who had the money to buy it. That was the catch. Texas was just emerging from the economic devastation of war and its aftermath. Not many people other than opportunistic outsiders had much money to spend. Most of what Texans needed, they produced for themselves or did without. But Austin had been something of an oasis, money flowing more freely because of the Union soldiers and the state's reconstruction government based here.
It dawned on Rusty that Andy's attention was focused on two young women who stood in front of a nearby saloon. It was obvious they were not Sunday school teachers.
He warned, “Don't let your curiosity get stirred up too much. I don't expect we'll be stayin'.” It occurred to him that he had taught Andy a lot about plowing straight rows but not enough about avoiding society's pitfalls.
Tom returned, his jaw set grimly. “Governor Davis has got himself barricaded in the capitol basement with a bunch of his old state police. The Coke men and the legislature have got the upper floor.”
“A Mexican standoff,” Rusty said.
“Maybe not for long. Davis has sent a wire to President Grant. He's askin' him to order the troops in. Wants them to throw out the Coke crowd and keep him in office.”
That news troubled Rusty. “If he does, there's apt to be an awful fight.”
Andy had no problem with the notion of a fight. “I wish old Buffalo Caller could've seen this.” Buffalo Caller was the Comanche warrior who had first captured him and kept him for his own. “He would've given a hundred horses to watch white men battle one another instead of fightin' the People. And it would've been worth every one of them.”
Tom declared, “You're white. That's a scandalous thing to say.”
Andy said, “Was it to happen, I'd cheer for the old Texans to win. But not too quick. I'd like to see the fight stretch out a while.”
Tom shook his head. “Scandalous.” He looked back toward the capitol. “I've offered to do my part and stand with Coke. This ain't none of you-all's fight unless you want it to be.”
Rusty said, “We're here now. We wouldn't go off and leave you by yourself.”
Tom seemed pleased. “You sound like your old Daddy Mike. But I won't be by myself. There's several of my friends up there from way back. There's a bunch of old rangers, too. Friends of yours, I'd warrant.”
Rusty's interest quickened. “Rangers?”
“Yeah, but like I said, it don't have to be your fight. I wouldn't want a young feller like Andy on my conscience. Or you, either.”
“We came of our own accord. We're grown men.” Rusty glanced at Andy. “I am, anyway.”
Tom nodded. “There's a wagon yard down yonder. Would you take my horse for me?”
Rusty jerked his head. “Come on, Andy.”
Andy led Tom's mount. Rusty guessed there must be a hundred horses in the several corrals to the side of and beyond the large wooden barn. A droop-shouldered liveryman slouched in the big open doorway, waiting for customers. He limped out a few paces and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice at a bedraggled cat, missing by a foot. A bit of the spittle remained in his stubble of gray-and-black beard. He said, “You're supposed to be in there chasin' mice. They're fixin' to carry off the whole shebang, barn and all.” He looked up at Rusty. “What can I do for you-all?”
“Got room for three more horses?”
“If there ain't room enough we'll just stack them like cordwood. I expect you-all are in town to see the excitement?” It was a statement, but he made it sound like a question.
“We didn't know about it 'til we got here.”
“I ain't takin' sides, you understand, but I hope the Coke people give that Davis crowd a hell of a lickin'. I've had a gutful of them thieves.”
Rusty smiled. “Sounds like you have taken sides.”
“I reckon, but if the shootin' starts I'm keepin' my head down. I taken a Yankee ball in my leg durin' the war. Convinced me I ain't no fightin' man.”
“But you're willin' to take money from either side?”
“I take care of horses, and horses don't know nothin' about politics. I do business with any and all, long as the money is genuine.” He extended his hand, the palm up. “And paid in advance.”
Rusty took his time counting out the coins, for he did not have enough that he could afford to spend them needlessly. “We'll want to bed down here in the wagon yard tonight. We've got no money to waste on a hotel.”
“Hotels are all full, anyway. Spread your blankets anywhere you can find an empty space. And be careful with your matches. You don't want to buy no burned-up barn.” He dropped Rusty's coins into his pocket. They clinked against silver already there.
The capitol standoff was good for business.
The liveryman looked behind him as if to be certain he would not be overheard. “Couple of fellers were talkin' back of the barn. They're waitin' for Coke to give the word to make a rush against the capitol and put Davis out on the street. Could be a right interestin' show.”
Rusty glanced uneasily at Andy. “Tom could get hurt. He's a shade old to be mixin' in a bad fight.”
Andy said, “He's never run away from one yet. That's why they made him sheriff again.”
“He ought not to've let them put that badge back on him. I've got a notion to try and talk him into goin' home before somethin' happens. That sick wife of his needs him more than anybody here does.”
Andy had not seen enough of the town. “Gettin' kind of late in the day. We couldn't go far before dark.”
“We could get out of gunshot range.”
Andy resigned himself to disappointment. He patted Long Red's neck. “You better eat your oats in a hurry.” He followed Rusty out the door.
Rusty told the liveryman, “Don't turn our horses into the lot just yet. We're liable to be leavin'.”
The old man shoved his hands into his pockets. The coins jingled like tiny bells. Reluctantly he said, “I guess you'll want your money back. You still want me to feed them some oats?”
“I wish you would.” Rusty was more willing to spend on the horses than on himself.
He saw a crowd of nervous-looking men standing around the front of a hotel as if waiting for someone to assert leadership and take them somewhere…anywhere, to do something…anything. A familiar voice called his name, and a man pushed through the cluster. Len Tanner was tall and lanky, in patched trousers that hung loose around a waist thin as a slab of bacon. He always looked as if he had not eaten a square meal in a month. In truth, he could put away an alarming amount of groceries when the opportunity presented itself.
Rusty exclaimed, “Len! Thought you were back in East Texas, visitin' your kin.”
“Ain't much excitement in seein' kinfolks. Here's where the fun is at.”
Rusty had ridden with Tanner during his ranger service. Since the war, Tanner had spent much of his time at Rusty's farm when he lacked something better to do. He was not addicted to steady employment. Tanner said, “There's a bunch of our old ranger bunkies here ready to run the carpetbaggers out of town on a rail. But Coke keeps holdin' back, hopin' Davis will cave in without a fight.”
“What if he doesn't?”
“After fightin' the damned Comanches, this oughtn't to make us break a sweat.” Tanner frowned at Andy. “Sorry, button, I didn't mean nothin' personal.”
Andy shrugged. “I take it as a compliment to the Comanches.”
“They're honest enemies, at least. They come against you face-to-face. Carpetbaggers sneak up behind you and kill you with affydavits.” Tanner's family had lost their farm to confiscatory reconstruction taxes, though he, like Rusty, had never actively supported the Confederacy. He said, “I know why Davis wants to keep that office. There's some of Texas that his cronies ain't stole yet.” His momentary dark mood fell away. “Speakin' of old friends, I'll bet it's been a spell since you seen Jim and Johnny Morris.”
“Sure has.” Rusty looked around eagerly. “Are those rascals here?”
The Morris brothers had served in the same ranger company as Rusty and Tanner until they went into the Confederate army late in the war.
Tanner said, “Me and them are plannin' on a little sortie tonight. Goin' to aggravate some Yankee soldiers.”
That did not surprise Rusty. Like Tanner, the brothers had always gloried in a fracas. If they could not find a fight already in progress they had occasionally instigated one.
Rusty and Andy followed Tanner through the crowd. Two men of roughly Rusty's age shouted his name and pushed their way to him. They could be taken for twins, though Jim was a year or so the oldest. He declared, “Glad to see you're still alive.” He gripped Rusty's outstretched hand with a force that could crush bones. “Me and Johnny figured you'd worked yourself to death on that wore-out farm.”
“I've come awful close.”
Jim turned to Andy, his manner jovial. “You'd be the Comanche button Len's been tellin' us about.”
The brothers' being friends of Tanner's did not automatically assure Andy's acceptance. He regarded them with an element of doubt. “Len's been known to lie a little, once or twice.”
Johnny Morris grinned. “We've caught him abusin' the facts ourselves. But only when he's awake.” He jerked his head, beckoning Rusty and the others beyond the edge of the crowd. In a low voice he said, “Rusty, you're just the man to help us do a little job tonight.”
Rusty felt misgivings. As much as he liked Tanner and the Morrises, he remembered times when they had acted first and considered the consequences later, if at all. Events had not always worked to their advantage. “I'd want to hear the particulars before I say anything.” He already leaned toward saying no.
“The army's brought up a cannon from San Antonio.”
Rusty's jaw dropped. He had not considered that the dispute would come to this. A cannon could blow a big hole in the capitol building. He thought immediately of Tom Blessing, standing guard somewhere in or around it.
He protested, “Hard to believe the army would fire on the capitol while Davis and some of his people hold the basement floor.”
“No,” Johnny said, “but they'd fire into the crowd if a bunch was to try and rush the buildin'. We figure they're just waitin' for Grant to wire them the orders.”
“But a cannon…what could you do against a weapon the size of that?”
Jim said, “Me and Johnny and Len are goin' to spike it.”
Andy demanded, “What do you mean, ‘spike' it?”
Johnny explained, “You drive an iron spike into the touchhole. They can't fire 'til they get it out, and that can be hell to do if it's pounded in there hard enough.”
Rusty said, “Don't you know they'll be guardin' it? You'll get yourselves shot.”
“Len'll distract the guards. Won't take us but a minute to fix the cannon and be gone. You could help him.”
The idea was much too simple. Rusty could see a dozen holes in it, most of them potentially lethal. “You're crazy, all three of you.”
Andy said eagerly, “Let's do it, Rusty. We can run rings around them soldiers.”
“Four of you are crazy. You're too young to be mixin' into a thing like this.”
“How old were you the first time you rode with the rangers?”
“That was a long time ago. Times were different.” It struck Rusty that his foster father, Daddy Mike Shannon, had said the same thing to him once, to no effect.
Johnny Morris turned. “Yonder come some of them brunette Yankees.” A small squad of black troopers marched up the street, led by a white officer on horseback, the same one Rusty had seen earlier. “At least they ain't brought their cannon with them.”
Jim said, “Washington still ain't given them permission to mix in. That's all they're waitin' for.”
The presence of black troops had been a thorn in the sides of ex-Confederates during the reconstruction years. Texans were convinced that the victorious Union intended to humiliate them by putting them under the authority of former slaves. The effect had been more of outrage than of humiliation.
Several in the crowd began catcalling, shouting racial and political insults at the soldiers and their officer. One man stepped out past the others and shook his fist, loudly cursing all Yankees and their antecedents from the poorest foot soldier all the way up to President Grant. His slurred speech indicated that he had imbibed a good measure of liquid courage.
The officer unbuttoned his holster and drew a pistol. He pushed his horse up close and brought the barrel down across the heckler's head. The man went down, his hat rolling in the dirt.
The officer turned in the saddle. “Arrest him. Two of you men take him to the bull pen.”
Len swore under his breath. “That old boy was too drunk to know what he was sayin'.”
“He knew,” Rusty said sternly. “But loud talk is no reason to break a man's skull.”
A noisy protest arose from the crowd, but no one made a move toward the well-armed soldiers.
Jim Morris said, “Whatever happened to free speech?”
Johnny replied, “It ain't free anymore. And the price keeps goin' up.”
Rusty gave way to rising anger as two troopers dragged the half-conscious man away. He looked into the faces of his friends and saw the same reaction.
Andy demanded, “Don't you think we ought to do some-thin'?”
Rusty said, “Like what? The South already lost one war.”
Tanner said, “At least you can look the situation over with us. Help us figure out how we're goin' to do it.”
“I guess I can go that far. But this is a dog fight, and me and Andy have got no dog in it.”
 
Copyright © 2002 by Elmer Kelton

Excerpts

1
 
 
Austin, Texas, January 1874
 
The election had gone smoothly except for certain extra-legal shenanigans perpetrated by both sides. Those were a normal feature of Texas politics and came as no surprise. By contrast the aftermath was chaotic enough to try the patience of saints, if there had been any. Rusty Shannon had encountered few saints in reconstruction Texas.
He slow-trotted his dun horse westward along a rutted wagon road skirting the edge of the Colorado River and wished he were back home on the farm where he belonged. On one side of him rode Sheriff Tom Blessing, in his sixties but still blacksmith-strong, solid as a block of oak timber. On the other, Andy Pickard whistled in a country boy’s youthful awe and marveled at the town just ahead. His urban experience had been limited to a few small crossroads settlements.
Andy declared, “I had no idea Austin was this big. Must be three—maybe four—thousand people here. I never saw such a place in my life.”
No one knew exactly how long a life that had been. Andy had been orphaned before he was old enough to retain clear memories. Rusty’s best judgment was that he might be eighteen or nineteen, allowing some leeway on one side or the other. Strenuous outdoor labor and the excesses of Texas weather had given him a mature appearance beyond his years. He had a young man’s seasoned face but had not lost the questing eyes of a boy eager to ride over the hill and see the other side. Girls seemed to consider him handsome. Andy seemed to have no objection to their thinking so.
Rusty turned up his frayed old coat collar against a cold wind coming off of the river. He had been wearing that coat for more than ten years, always intending to buy a new one someday when he felt he had a few dollars to spare but always “making do” for one more winter. He said, “San Antonio’s bigger. I was there once.”
His face, browned and chiseled with premature lines, was that of a man forty or more. Actually he was in his mid-thirties, but most had been hard years spent in sun and wind, riding with frontier rangers or walking behind mules and a plow. He said, “Got no use for San Antonio, though. It’s overrun with gamblers and whiskey peddlers and pickpockets.”
Tom Blessing declared, “Austin’s worse. It’s overrun with lawyers.”
Andy had seen little of gamblers, whiskey peddlers, pickpockets or lawyers, but he was itching to start. He told Rusty, “You always say I need more learnin’. I’ll bet I could learn a lot here.”
“Mostly stuff you oughtn’t to know.”
Andy was well schooled in the ways of nature, but Rusty had worried about his limited book education. Andy had caught a little here and a little there as country teachers came, stayed a while, then drifted on. Rusty, in his time, had had the advantage of coaching by a foster mother. There had been no woman to help teach Andy. At least he could read a newspaper, and he had an aptitude with figures. He was not easily cheated, nor was he a forgiving victim. Most who tried once never cared to do it a second time.
Andy said, “I doubt I’d get bored in a place like this. Bet there’s somethin’ goin’ on all the time.”
In Rusty’s view, that was the trouble. His idea of a perfect day was a quiet one. He had finally begun having a lot of those, thanks to the farm. “Most of it you wouldn’t want any part of. Country folks couldn’t abide the crowdin’. You soon get tired of people trompin’ on your toes all the time.”
He was here against his will and better judgment. He had planned a journey north toward old Fort Belknap to visit the Monahan family and to bring Josie Monahan back with him as his wife. But Tom had asked him to make this trip, and it was against Rusty’s nature to refuse a good friend. Tom had ridden often with Daddy Mike Shannon in old times when there was Indian trouble. He had introduced Rusty to the rangers at a crisis point when Rusty had badly needed somewhere to go. Rusty often said he would follow Tom into hell with a bucket of water. He had, once or twice. Austin might not be hell, but Rusty did not consider it heaven, either.
He wished he had not given in to Andy’s plea that he be allowed to come along. He dreaded the temptations this town might present to someone no longer a boy but not quite yet a man. Rusty had taken on the responsibility of a foster brother after Andy’s nearest; known relative, an uncle, had rejected him. At times, like now, it had been an uneasy burden to carry.
He surveyed the town with apprehension. “Tom, reckon how we’ll find your friend amongst all those people?”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and stumble into him. Otherwise, he’s likely puttin’ up at a wagon yard. We’ll ask around.”
Tom had been a county sheriff before reconstruction authorities threw him out of office for having served the Texas Confederate government. The recent election had restored his badge after the former Confederates finally regained their right to vote. Another sheriff, a friend of his, had sent word that he was badly needed in Austin. He had not explained his reasons. He had just said to hurry and to bring help. Tom had immediately called on Rusty, respecting his law enforcement experience before war’s end had caused the ranger companies to disintegrate.
Andy had jumped at a chance to quit the farm a while and see the city. To Rusty he had argued, “You’re liable to need somebody to watch your back. You made some enemies while you were a ranger.”
Rusty suspected Andy’s motivation had less to do with protectiveness than with an urge to see something new and enjoy some excitement.
Because it was the dead of winter, Rusty and Andy had little farmwork that could not be postponed. Last year’s crop was long since harvested, and this year’s planting had to await warm ground. It would have been a good time for Rusty to get his red hair trimmed, then take a several-days’ ride up to the Monahan place and ask Josie a question he had postponed much too long. Instead, he found himself approaching Austin and wondering why.
During ranger service that often took him far from home, Rusty had remained at heart a farmer with a strong tie to land he had known since boyhood. Andy empathized but had never been that dedicated to the soil. A tumultuous boyhood had given him a restless spirit. He welcomed any excuse to saddle Long Red and travel over new ground, to cross rivers he had not previously known.
“It’s the Indian in him,” Rusty had heard people say. “You never saw an Indian stay in one place long unless he was dead.”
Andy was not Indian, at least by blood, but when he was a small boy the Comanches had taken him. They had held him through several of his vital formative years. Rusty had found him injured and helpless and returned him to the white man’s world. But Andy had never given up all of his Indian ways.
Rusty hoped youthful curiosity would be satisfied quickly. He doubted that Andy would remain contented for long in a city like Austin any more than he was likely to be content spending all his life on the farm.
A squad of black soldiers drew Rusty’s attention. He and Andy and Tom had drawn theirs as well. He murmured, “They’re studyin’ us like we might be outlaws.”
Tom muttered in a deep voice, “They’re lookin’ at our guns. They’re always afraid some old rebel may take a notion to declare war again.” A few had, from time to time.
Rusty half expected the soldiers to stop them, but they simply watched in stone-faced silence as the three riders passed by and turned into a long street, which a sign on the comer said was Congress. At the head of it, well to the north, stood an imposing wooden structure larger than any other Rusty could see.
Andy’s eyes were wide. “Is that the capitol? The place where they make all the laws?”
Tom said, “That’s the place. Fixin’ to be a lot of different faces there now that we’ve elected a new governor. Be a lot of carpetbaggers huntin’ new country.”
Rusty had mixed feelings about the outsiders who had crowded into Texas after the war, hungry for opportunity. On the positive side they had brought money to a state drained dry after four years of debilitating conflict. On the negative side some had brought a bottomless hunger for anything they could grab and went to any lengths of stealth or violence necessary to satisfy it.
Now thousands of ex-Confederates, disenfranchised after the war, had finally recovered their voting rights. By a margin of two to one they had defeated the Union-backed reconstruction governor, Edmund J. Davis. They had voted in Richard Coke, a former Confederate army officer and one of their own. Perhaps that transition accounted for the large numbers of men standing along the street as if waiting for something to happen, Rusty thought. It did not, however, account for so many being heavily burdened by a variety of firearms.
Andy grinned. “Looks like the war is fixin’ to start again.” War had been a central fact of life among the Comanches, often sought after when it did not come on its own.
Rusty frowned. “I’m commencin’ to wonder what we’ve ridden into.” He reined his dun horse over to a man leaning against a cedar hitching post. “Say, friend, what’s the big attraction in town?”
The man straightened, fixing suspicious eyes on Rusty, then on Andy and Tom. “I reckon you know, or you wouldn’t be here. Did Governor Davis send for you?”
“I wouldn’t know Edmund J. Davis from George Washington.”
The man said, “A lot of Davis’s friends have come to town includin’ his old state police. They’re all totin’ guns. I see that you are, too.”
Rusty kept his right hand away from the pistol on his hip, avoiding any appearance of a threat. “We brought our guns because we came a long ways. We didn’t know what we might run into, or who.”
“Just so you ain’t one of them Davis police.”
Mention of the Davis police put a bad taste in Rusty’s mouth. “I used to be a ranger, but I never was a state policeman.”
The governor’s special police force—a mixture of white and black—had been organized as part of the state’s reconstruction government, replacing the traditional rangers. Excesses had given the force a reputation for arrogance and brutality, arousing enmity in most Texans. Rusty had always felt that a majority were well intentioned, but a scattering of scoundrels overshadowed the law enforcement achievements of the rest.
A new legislature had recently abolished the state police to the relief of the citizenry and the consternation of Governor Davis.
The man said, “Local folks are naturally stirred up about so many strangers bringin’ guns to town. Coke has been sworn in as governor, but Davis won’t recognize him. Word has gone around that he has no intention of givin’ up the office.”
“But the people voted him out.”
“He’s declared the election unconstitutional.”
Tom’s face reddened. “He can’t. That’s not legal.”
“He claims he’s got the authority to say what’s legal and what’s not. Thinks he’s the king of England, or maybe old Pharaoh.”
The occupying Union forces had given their handpicked governor dictatorial power. He had instituted worthwhile improvements, particularly to the educational system, yet Texans resented his issuing punitive executive orders from which they had no recourse. Though Davis was a Southerner and a longtime citizen of the state, most former Confederates felt that he belonged to the enemy. He had fled Texas early in the war, eventually becoming a brigadier general in the Union army. The governor’s office had been his reward.
Now it appeared that he did not intend to give it up.
Tom said, “We hold no brief for Davis. We voted for Coke.” He glanced questioningly at Rusty. “At least I did.”
Rusty nodded. He, too, had voted for Coke because he felt it was time to shed the smothering reconstruction regime so Texas could work its own way back to order and stability.
“Then I’d advise you to either join Coke’s militia or take care of your business and move out of town before the roof blows off of the capitol yonder.”
Pulling away, Rusty muttered to Tom, “I think I see why your sheriff friend asked you to come and bring help.”
“I’ve known him a long time. I couldn’t turn him down.”
Tom’s loyalty to a friend was such that he had reluctantly left an ailing wife at home to come on this mission. Rusty’s loyalty to Tom did not allow him to refuse Tom’s request, though he had planned to be marrying Josie Monahan about now. He said, “We’re liable to get pulled into a fight that ain’t ours. That whole damned war wasn’t really ours.”
Like the late Sam Houston, Rusty had never favored secession from the Union, nor had he ever developed any allegiance to the Confederacy. One reason he had remained with the frontier rangers throughout the war was to avoid conscription into the rebel army. Even so, he had come to resent the oppressive federal occupation.
Tom frowned. “I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I’d known we were ridin’ into a situation like this. Maybe you and Andy better turn around and go home.”
Disappointed, Andy said, “We ain’t hardly seen the city yet.”
Rusty said, “We’ve come this far, so we’ll wait and size things up. Then we can go home if we’re a mind to.”
Initially Tom had harbored reservations about the wisdom of the war, but once it began he had given his loyalty to Texas and the South without looking back. He said, “Davis got beat fair and square. If he was a proper gentleman he’d recognize the will of the people. He’d yield up the office.”
Andy said, “The Comanche way is simpler. A chief can’t force anybody to do anything. If the people don’t like him anymore they just quit payin’ attention to him. No election, no fight, no nothin’.” He snorted. “And everybody claims white people are smarter.”
Andy’s sorrel shied to one side, bumping against Rusty’s dun. Two men burst off the sidewalk and into the dirt street, wildly swinging their fists. Immediately another man joined the fray, then two more, cursing, wrestling awkwardly. Foot and horse traffic stopped. Onlookers crowded around while the fight escalated.
Andy asked, “Whose side are we on?”
Rusty said, “Nobody’s.” He saw little difference between the combatants except that some might be drunker than others. He said, “We’d best move on before some fool pulls a gun.” He found the way blocked by men rushing to watch the fight.
Faces were bloodied and shirts torn, but nobody drew a pistol or knife. Whatever the quarrel was about, the participants did not seem to consider it worth a killing.
A city policeman strode down the street, gave the situation a quick study, then stepped back to observe from a comfortable distance, hands in his pockets. Shortly a blue-clad army officer trotted his horse up beside the policeman. His sharp voice indicated he was used to people snapping to attention in his presence. “Aren’t you going to stop this?”
The policeman did not take his hands from his pockets. “A man can get hurt messin’ in where he wasn’t asked. Long as they don’t kill one another, I say let them have their fun.”
“You are paid to enforce the peace.”
“Not near enough. Ain’t been any peace around here since this governor business came up. You want to stop the fight, go ahead.”
“The army is not supposed to interfere. This is a civilian matter.”
“And this here civilian is goin’ into that grog shop yonder to have himself a drink. If anybody gets killed, come and fetch me.” The policeman turned away. The officer watched him in frustration, then turned his attention to the ongoing fight. A couple of the brawlers had had enough and crawled away to sit on the edge of the wooden sidewalk, there to nurse their wounds while the altercation went on. They were not missed.
Andy’s eyes danced with excitement as his fists mimicked the movements of the belligerents. He had been in plenty of fights himself, usually instigated by other young men making fun of the ways he had learned from the Indians.
Rusty knew a good scrap when he saw one. This was not a good one. It was slow-footed and clumsy, loud but not likely to produce anything more serious than loose teeth, bruised knuckles, and maybe a flattened nose. He decided the policeman had been right in leaving bad nature to run its course.
Onlookers’ comments bore out his assumption that some of the fighters were Davis men. Others supported Coke. The fight slowly staggered to a standstill. The Coke men appeared to carry the victory, such as it was. They moved away in a triumphant group, weaving toward the grog shop the policeman had chosen. Their opponents dragged themselves to the sidewalk and slumped there, exhausted.
The fight had energized Andy. He said, “Some folks take their politics serious.”
Tom Blessing nodded grimly. “With good reason. Davis’s men tromped on everybody that got in their way. Stole half the state of Texas. Now comes the day of reckonin’, and they ain’t willin’ to ’fess up.”
The three rode north up the wide street, Rusty warily eyeing the armed men scattered all along. He saw no reason anyone would shoot at him on purpose, but he had learned long ago that the innocent bystander was usually the first one hurt. The more innocent, the more likely.
They reined up short of the capitol building. Several men stood shoulder to shoulder at the front door, holding rifles. They had a military bearing but did not wear uniforms. Rusty surmised they were former Confederate soldiers who had not forgotten the regimens learned in war.
He said, “Looks like they’re guardin’ the state treasury.”
Tom said, “Too late for that. Talk is that Davis’s adjutant general slipped away with it and sailed for Europe.” He stepped down from the saddle and lifted the reins for Andy to hold. “You-all better stay here so we don’t accidentally provoke somebody into somethin’ rash. I’ll walk up there and see what the game is.” He unstrapped his pistol belt and hung it over the saddle horn as an indication that his intentions were benign.
Andy gazed southward back down Congress Avenue, where substantial buildings lined each side. Rusty assumed he was marveling at the variety of merchandise available here for anyone who had the money to buy it. That was the catch. Texas was just emerging from the economic devastation of war and its aftermath. Not many people other than opportunistic outsiders had much money to spend. Most of what Texans needed, they produced for themselves or did without. But Austin had been something of an oasis, money flowing more freely because of the Union soldiers and the state’s reconstruction government based here.
It dawned on Rusty that Andy’s attention was focused on two young women who stood in front of a nearby saloon. It was obvious they were not Sunday school teachers.
He warned, “Don’t let your curiosity get stirred up too much. I don’t expect we’ll be stayin’.” It occurred to him that he had taught Andy a lot about plowing straight rows but not enough about avoiding society’s pitfalls.
Tom returned, his jaw set grimly. “Governor Davis has got himself barricaded in the capitol basement with a bunch of his old state police. The Coke men and the legislature have got the upper floor.”
“A Mexican standoff,” Rusty said.
“Maybe not for long. Davis has sent a wire to President Grant. He’s askin’ him to order the troops in. Wants them to throw out the Coke crowd and keep him in office.”
That news troubled Rusty. “If he does, there’s apt to be an awful fight.”
Andy had no problem with the notion of a fight. “I wish old Buffalo Caller could’ve seen this.” Buffalo Caller was the Comanche warrior who had first captured him and kept him for his own. “He would’ve given a hundred horses to watch white men battle one another instead of fightin’ the People. And it would’ve been worth every one of them.”
Tom declared, “You’re white. That’s a scandalous thing to say.”
Andy said, “Was it to happen, I’d cheer for the old Texans to win. But not too quick. I’d like to see the fight stretch out a while.”
Tom shook his head. “Scandalous.” He looked back toward the capitol. “I’ve offered to do my part and stand with Coke. This ain’t none of you-all’s fight unless you want it to be.”
Rusty said, “We’re here now. We wouldn’t go off and leave you by yourself.”
Tom seemed pleased. “You sound like your old Daddy Mike. But I won’t be by myself. There’s several of my friends up there from way back. There’s a bunch of old rangers, too. Friends of yours, I’d warrant.”
Rusty’s interest quickened. “Rangers?”
“Yeah, but like I said, it don’t have to be your fight. I wouldn’t want a young feller like Andy on my conscience. Or you, either.”
“We came of our own accord. We’re grown men.” Rusty glanced at Andy. “I am, anyway.”
Tom nodded. “There’s a wagon yard down yonder. Would you take my horse for me?”
Rusty jerked his head. “Come on, Andy.”
Andy led Tom’s mount. Rusty guessed there must be a hundred horses in the several corrals to the side of and beyond the large wooden barn. A droop-shouldered liveryman slouched in the big open doorway, waiting for customers. He limped out a few paces and spat a stream of brown tobacco juice at a bedraggled cat, missing by a foot. A bit of the spittle remained in his stubble of gray-and-black beard. He said, “You’re supposed to be in there chasin’ mice. They’re fixin’ to carry off the whole shebang, barn and all.” He looked up at Rusty. “What can I do for you-all?”
“Got room for three more horses?”
“If there ain’t room enough we’ll just stack them like cordwood. I expect you-all are in town to see the excitement?” It was a statement, but he made it sound like a question.
“We didn’t know about it ’til we got here.”
“I ain’t takin’ sides, you understand, but I hope the Coke people give that Davis crowd a hell of a lickin’. I’ve had a gutful of them thieves.”
Rusty smiled. “Sounds like you have taken sides.”
“I reckon, but if the shootin’ starts I’m keepin’ my head down. I taken a Yankee ball in my leg durin’ the war. Convinced me I ain’t no fightin’ man.”
“But you’re willin’ to take money from either side?”
“I take care of horses, and horses don’t know nothin’ about politics. I do business with any and all, long as the money is genuine.” He extended his hand, the palm up. “And paid in advance.”
Rusty took his time counting out the coins, for he did not have enough that he could afford to spend them needlessly. “We’ll want to bed down here in the wagon yard tonight. We’ve got no money to waste on a hotel.”
“Hotels are all full, anyway. Spread your blankets anywhere you can find an empty space. And be careful with your matches. You don’t want to buy no burned-up barn.” He dropped Rusty’s coins into his pocket. They clinked against silver already there.
The capitol standoff was good for business.
The liveryman looked behind him as if to be certain he would not be overheard. “Couple of fellers were talkin’ back of the barn. They’re waitin’ for Coke to give the word to make a rush against the capitol and put Davis out on the street. Could be a right interestin’ show.”
Rusty glanced uneasily at Andy. “Tom could get hurt. He’s a shade old to be mixin’ in a bad fight.”
Andy said, “He’s never run away from one yet. That’s why they made him sheriff again.”
“He ought not to’ve let them put that badge back on him. I’ve got a notion to try and talk him into goin’ home before somethin’ happens. That sick wife of his needs him more than anybody here does.”
Andy had not seen enough of the town. “Gettin’ kind of late in the day. We couldn’t go far before dark.”
“We could get out of gunshot range.”
Andy resigned himself to disappointment. He patted Long Red’s neck. “You better eat your oats in a hurry.” He followed Rusty out the door.
Rusty told the liveryman, “Don’t turn our horses into the lot just yet. We’re liable to be leavin’.”
The old man shoved his hands into his pockets. The coins jingled like tiny bells. Reluctantly he said, “I guess you’ll want your money back. You still want me to feed them some oats?”
“I wish you would.” Rusty was more willing to spend on the horses than on himself.
He saw a crowd of nervous-looking men standing around the front of a hotel as if waiting for someone to assert leadership and take them somewhere…anywhere, to do something…anything. A familiar voice called his name, and a man pushed through the cluster. Len Tanner was tall and lanky, in patched trousers that hung loose around a waist thin as a slab of bacon. He always looked as if he had not eaten a square meal in a month. In truth, he could put away an alarming amount of groceries when the opportunity presented itself.
Rusty exclaimed, “Len! Thought you were back in East Texas, visitin’ your kin.”
“Ain’t much excitement in seein’ kinfolks. Here’s where the fun is at.”
Rusty had ridden with Tanner during his ranger service. Since the war, Tanner had spent much of his time at Rusty’s farm when he lacked something better to do. He was not addicted to steady employment. Tanner said, “There’s a bunch of our old ranger bunkies here ready to run the carpetbaggers out of town on a rail. But Coke keeps holdin’ back, hopin’ Davis will cave in without a fight.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“After fightin’ the damned Comanches, this oughtn’t to make us break a sweat.” Tanner frowned at Andy. “Sorry, button, I didn’t mean nothin’ personal.”
Andy shrugged. “I take it as a compliment to the Comanches.”
“They’re honest enemies, at least. They come against you face-to-face. Carpetbaggers sneak up behind you and kill you with affydavits.” Tanner’s family had lost their farm to confiscatory reconstruction taxes, though he, like Rusty, had never actively supported the Confederacy. He said, “I know why Davis wants to keep that office. There’s some of Texas that his cronies ain’t stole yet.” His momentary dark mood fell away. “Speakin’ of old friends, I’ll bet it’s been a spell since you seen Jim and Johnny Morris.”
“Sure has.” Rusty looked around eagerly. “Are those rascals here?”
The Morris brothers had served in the same ranger company as Rusty and Tanner until they went into the Confederate army late in the war.
Tanner said, “Me and them are plannin’ on a little sortie tonight. Goin’ to aggravate some Yankee soldiers.”
That did not surprise Rusty. Like Tanner, the brothers had always gloried in a fracas. If they could not find a fight already in progress they had occasionally instigated one.
Rusty and Andy followed Tanner through the crowd. Two men of roughly Rusty’s age shouted his name and pushed their way to him. They could be taken for twins, though Jim was a year or so the oldest. He declared, “Glad to see you’re still alive.” He gripped Rusty’s outstretched hand with a force that could crush bones. “Me and Johnny figured you’d worked yourself to death on that wore-out farm.”
“I’ve come awful close.”
Jim turned to Andy, his manner jovial. “You’d be the Comanche button Len’s been tellin’ us about.”
The brothers’ being friends of Tanner’s did not automatically assure Andy’s acceptance. He regarded them with an element of doubt. “Len’s been known to lie a little, once or twice.”
Johnny Morris grinned. “We’ve caught him abusin’ the facts ourselves. But only when he’s awake.” He jerked his head, beckoning Rusty and the others beyond the edge of the crowd. In a low voice he said, “Rusty, you’re just the man to help us do a little job tonight.”
Rusty felt misgivings. As much as he liked Tanner and the Morrises, he remembered times when they had acted first and considered the consequences later, if at all. Events had not always worked to their advantage. “I’d want to hear the particulars before I say anything.” He already leaned toward saying no.
“The army’s brought up a cannon from San Antonio.”
Rusty’s jaw dropped. He had not considered that the dispute would come to this. A cannon could blow a big hole in the capitol building. He thought immediately of Tom Blessing, standing guard somewhere in or around it.
He protested, “Hard to believe the army would fire on the capitol while Davis and some of his people hold the basement floor.”
“No,” Johnny said, “but they’d fire into the crowd if a bunch was to try and rush the buildin’. We figure they’re just waitin’ for Grant to wire them the orders.”
“But a cannon…what could you do against a weapon the size of that?”
Jim said, “Me and Johnny and Len are goin’ to spike it.”
Andy demanded, “What do you mean, ‘spike’ it?”
Johnny explained, “You drive an iron spike into the touchhole. They can’t fire ’til they get it out, and that can be hell to do if it’s pounded in there hard enough.”
Rusty said, “Don’t you know they’ll be guardin’ it? You’ll get yourselves shot.”
“Len’ll distract the guards. Won’t take us but a minute to fix the cannon and be gone. You could help him.”
The idea was much too simple. Rusty could see a dozen holes in it, most of them potentially lethal. “You’re crazy, all three of you.”
Andy said eagerly, “Let’s do it, Rusty. We can run rings around them soldiers.”
“Four of you are crazy. You’re too young to be mixin’ into a thing like this.”
“How old were you the first time you rode with the rangers?”
“That was a long time ago. Times were different.” It struck Rusty that his foster father, Daddy Mike Shannon, had said the same thing to him once, to no effect.
Johnny Morris turned. “Yonder come some of them brunette Yankees.” A small squad of black troopers marched up the street, led by a white officer on horseback, the same one Rusty had seen earlier. “At least they ain’t brought their cannon with them.”
Jim said, “Washington still ain’t given them permission to mix in. That’s all they’re waitin’ for.”
The presence of black troops had been a thorn in the sides of ex-Confederates during the reconstruction years. Texans were convinced that the victorious Union intended to humiliate them by putting them under the authority of former slaves. The effect had been more of outrage than of humiliation.
Several in the crowd began catcalling, shouting racial and political insults at the soldiers and their officer. One man stepped out past the others and shook his fist, loudly cursing all Yankees and their antecedents from the poorest foot soldier all the way up to President Grant. His slurred speech indicated that he had imbibed a good measure of liquid courage.
The officer unbuttoned his holster and drew a pistol. He pushed his horse up close and brought the barrel down across the heckler’s head. The man went down, his hat rolling in the dirt.
The officer turned in the saddle. “Arrest him. Two of you men take him to the bull pen.”
Len swore under his breath. “That old boy was too drunk to know what he was sayin’.”
“He knew,” Rusty said sternly. “But loud talk is no reason to break a man’s skull.”
A noisy protest arose from the crowd, but no one made a move toward the well-armed soldiers.
Jim Morris said, “Whatever happened to free speech?”
Johnny replied, “It ain’t free anymore. And the price keeps goin’ up.”
Rusty gave way to rising anger as two troopers dragged the half-conscious man away. He looked into the faces of his friends and saw the same reaction.
Andy demanded, “Don’t you think we ought to do some-thin’?”
Rusty said, “Like what? The South already lost one war.”
Tanner said, “At least you can look the situation over with us. Help us figure out how we’re goin’ to do it.”
“I guess I can go that far. But this is a dog fight, and me and Andy have got no dog in it.”
 
Copyright © 2002 by Elmer Kelton

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Excerpted from Ranger's Trail by Elmer Kelton
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.