Cordell moved nearer to the edge of the thicket so he could observe the open ground beyond. He saw horsemen a couple of times, probably part of the posse that had chased him. Not until dusk did he help Buster onto his horse and venture out of the brush. Even then he held close to it in case they had to make a hasty retreat. After riding a mile or so he saw a cabin. At first he thought it might be Gaskin’s, but he realized that the old man’s place was farther from the river.
No telling who lives there, he thought, but I’ve got no choice. Buster stood a strong chance of dying on him if they kept riding. He drew back into the timber as he saw four horsemen leave the cabin. He watched tensely, hoping they had not seen him. The men kept riding in the general direction of town. He expelled a pent-up breath. That had been too close.
He saw a positive side, however. What better place to seek refuge than where the posse had just been?
He said, “Hang on, Buster. Maybe we can pass the night here, at least.”
It was a simple one-room log cabin, with a smokehouse, chicken house, a couple of log corrals, and a long shed off to one side. A garden showed evidence of hard work, its rows neatly hoed. Plants of several kinds were showing themselves, though none were yet mature enough to yield.
Cordell had always respected good farmers, though boyhood on a hardscrabble Louisiana cotton farm had left him looking for a life without all that sweat and heavy lifting. He had thought there must be an easier way to make a living. There might be, but this was not it. That old cotton farm looked a lot better in hindsight.
Smoke rose from the rock chimney, a sign somebody was fixing supper. The thought made his stomach rumble. A dog came out, wagging its tail and barking a greeting. Cordell drew a pistol he had grabbed as he left the jail. It was not his own, but with the other offenses he had committed, theft of a firearm seemed no more than a misdemeanor. He hollered, “Hello the house.”
The door opened inward. An old black man peered out. He said, “You-all a little late. The rest of the posse done been and gone.”
A darky! Cordell grimaced in disappointment. He had assumed from the well-kept appearance of the place that its owner was white. “This your farm?” he asked, doubting that it was.
“Yes, sir. It ain’t a whole lot, but it’s mine.”
Cordell briefly considered moving on, but Buster badly needed to stop. He asked, “You got a name?”
“Yes, sir, it’s Shanty. Shanty York.”
“Me and the boy here, we need shelter for the night. And somethin’ to eat.”
He thought he saw realization come into the old man’s eyes. The posse had probably described the fugitives enough that he recognized the pair. Shanty said, “They’s just the two of you?”
“Just us. You got anybody else in there with you?”
“Ain’t nobody here but me.” Despite obvious misgivings, the old man opened the door wider. “You-all come on in. I’ll put your horses in the pen yonder.”
“I’ll take care of them myself.” It struck him that Shanty might get on one of the horses and run after the posse.
Cordell was strong, known to bend horseshoes. He eased Buster down from the saddle by himself. “The boy’s hurt. Help me get him inside.”
Shanty looked too frail to be of much help, but he lent what support he could. “All I got is that old cot yonder.”
“That’ll have to do. Find me some clean cloth in place of this dirty neckerchief. Got any whiskey?”
“No, sir, I don’t hold with it.”
“I thought all darkies loved whiskey.”
“Not this one. A man never knows when his time might come. I don’t want Saint Peter to smell whiskey on my breath.”
“I wasn’t thinkin’ about drinkin’ it. I need to wash Buster’s wound, then see if I can dig the bullet out.”
“I got somethin’ the doctor give me a while back when I cut myself with the carvin’ knife.” Shanty fetched a dark bottle from an open cupboard shelf. Cordell pulled Buster’s shirt down and removed the bloodied neckerchief with which he had wrapped the wound. The bullet hole was red and inflamed around the edges. Buster cried out as the disinfectant set fire to him. Cordell had to hold him down.
“He needs a doctor.”
“There’s Dr. Smith in town. I could go fetch him.”
“And fetch the law while you’re at it? You know who we are, don’t you?”
Shanty was hesitant in answering. “I figure you’re the ones Andy and them are lookin’ for. They say you-all shot Sheriff Blessing. I wisht you hadn’t. He’s a fine man.”
Shanty had a small fire going. Cordell opened the blade of his pocketknife and held it over the flames until the burning was too much for him to stand. He smelled the hair singe on the back of his hand. “You hold him down the best you can.” To Buster he said, “Grit your teeth. This ain’t goin’ to be no Saturday-night dance.”
Buster cried out as Cordell probed for the bullet. The boy lunged forward, almost breaking free of Shanty’s weak grip. Sweat broke out on Cordell’s forehead and ran down to sting his eyes. Buster continued to cry. Blood welled up and spilled from the wound.
Shanty said, “You ain’t no doctor. You’re fixin’ to kill him.”
Cordell withdrew the blade. His hands were trembling. He realized he was doing more harm than good. He wiped a sleeve across his forehead and felt his throat tighten. “You’re right. This ain’t no good.” In helpless frustration he threw the open knife across the room and clenched his fists.
Shanty stanched the blood flow with a folded cloth. He said, “That bullet’ll kill him if it stays in there. You’d ought to take him to Dr. Smith.”
Cordell snapped, “I can’t do it, old man, don’t you see? They’re liable to hang him.” He immediately regretted the outburst. None of this was Shanty’s fault. It was Milt’s, and it was Cordell’s for allowing himself to be caught and jailed like a Saturday-night drunk. He could not fault Buster, for the kid was too green to have realized the possible consequences.
Shanty said, “Maybe they wouldn’t hang him, not if he wasn’t the one done the shootin’.”
Cordell rubbed a huge, bloody hand across his whiskered face. “God, if I could just turn back the time. I ought to’ve made him go home, even if I’d had to take a whip to him.”
“Boys his age can be mighty willful. Might be he’d’ve just gone off with somebody else and done the same thing.”
“But he didn’t. He went with me.”
Carefully Shanty wrapped Buster’s wound.
Cordell said, “We didn’t mean for nobody to get hurt. The fool that did the shootin’ ain’t with us no more.” He wondered why he felt compelled to explain anything to an old black man who was almost certainly at the bottom of the community’s social ladder. “Did they say the sheriff is dead?”
“No, sir, all they knowed was that he was hurt plenty bad. He might’ve gone to glory by now, though.”
“That sure would be tough luck for me.” Without consciously willing it, Cordell reached up and touched his throat. He imagined the feel of a rope around it. “Are you a prayin’ man, Shanty?”
“I thank the Lord every mornin’ that I can wake up and get out of bed.”
“Him and me ain’t well acquainted. I hope you’ll pray for that sheriff. And this boy, too.”
“Done done it. But I’ll do it some more.”
They left Buster lying on the cot. Shanty fried up some pork. Buster could not eat, so Cordell finished it. The old man’s wrinkled black hands shook with nervousness. Cordell assured him, “We don’t mean you no harm. We’ll be gone come daylight.”
“You’re goin’ on, then? With the boy in this shape?”
“Nothin’ else we can do.”
Cordell figured Shanty was likely to take advantage of any opportunity to get out of the cabin and run. He spread a blanket on the floor against the door so Shanty could not slip out. He dozed off and on but did not let himself fall into deep sleep. In dawn’s pale light Buster’s wound looked worse.
Cordell asked him, “Think you’ll be able to ride today?”
Buster nodded. His voice was so weak that Cordell heard the sound, but not the words. He said, “We’ve got to move. Somebody’s liable to show up.”
Shanty said, “He don’t look like he’s got much breath left in him. He’d ought to stay here.”
It crossed Cordell’s mind that the old man might be thinking of a potential reward. But he reconsidered, for Shanty seemed genuinely concerned. Cordell stepped through the door and looked into the sunrise. He saw no one. “I believe you mean well, but there’s too many people lookin’ for us that don’t have good intentions. Soon as we’ve et some breakfast, me and Buster will be on our way.”
He saddled the horses and led them to the cabin. He helped Buster to his feet, but the youth could not stand alone. He slumped back onto the cot.
Shanty said, “He’ll die if you make him ride.”
“Them people from town are liable to kill him if he doesn’t.”
Shanty argued, “I don’t think so. They’re good folks, most of them. Leave him here with me. Soon’s you’ve got away, I’ll go and fetch the doctor.”
Cordell was slow in making up his mind. Either choice tore at his conscience. To keep riding might kill Buster. On the other hand, angry posses had been known to exact summary justice at the end of a rope. Cordell had had a couple of close calls of that sort himself. Buster was too young to have his life snatched away from him in such a sudden and brutal manner. He had not had time to sample many of the world’s pleasures. So far as Cordell knew, the boy had not even known the wonder of being with a warm and willing girl.
Guilt lay heavy on Cordell’s conscience. He had seen something of his own younger self in the misguided kid. After the first time he had reluctantly allowed Buster to go along on a foray, it had been increasingly easy to keep saying yes.
Staring down into the fevered face, he made his decision. “I’ll leave him with you for now, but don’t send for the doctor yet. I’ll be back.”
“If the posse comes again, they’ll see his horse. Everybody knows I ain’t got one.”
“I’ll lead him down to the river and stake him on grass where nobody is apt to spot him.”
Mounted, Cordell took the second horse’s reins. To Shanty he said, “You’re a good and decent man. I wish I had some money to give you, but I don’t right now.”
“You don’t owe me nothin’. I just don’t want to think about that boy dyin’ out on the trail. It ain’t a fit way to meet his maker.”
Cordell turned in the saddle. “One last thing. Do you know an old man named Gaskin?”
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid I know the gentleman.”
“Whichaway is his place from here?”
Shanty pointed. “Was I you, I’d pass him by.”
“How come?”
“I was taught not to speak bad about folks, but Mr. Gaskin is a sinful man. If he thought there was any reward out on you, he’d turn you in for two dollars.”
“Would you turn me in? Or Buster?”
“If they was to come right out and ask me, I couldn’t lie. It’d be against the Book. But if they don’t ask me, I don’t see where I got to tell them anything.”
“That’s good enough.”
As Cordell rode away, it crossed his mind that once he got hold of that money, he ought to leave Shanty a few dollars for his trouble. Sure, the old man was black, and black folks were used to working for nothing. Cordell had been brought up to believe that was what they were put on this earth for. But he appreciated the old man’s kindness toward Buster.
Even after leaving Shanty’s cabin, he continued to wrestle with his conscience. He had been forced to choose between two equally onerous actions. He unsaddled Buster’s horse and staked him on a long rope in the timber by the river. He hung the bridle on a branch where he could retrieve it after he recovered his hidden money. He would prefer to stay in the timber where he could not be seen, but much of the land was open, either in pasture or in plowed fields. He had to trust to luck. On occasion it had been known to let him down, as when Sheriff Blessing had caught him handicapped by a hangover.
In a while he saw the cabin. It was as he remembered it, making a last stand against inevitable collapse. He stopped two hundred yards away and scrutinized the place for a while. He saw no movement, no smoke coming from the chimney. He did not see Gaskin working in his field or the neglected little weed patch that passed for a garden. Even this late in the morning, there was a chance he was still asleep. Cordell doubted that he often watched the sun rise.
He checked the back side of the cabin on the slim chance that Gaskin might be at his woodpile, chopping fuel for the fireplace. He was not. If he was here at all, he must be inside. Cordell tied his horse well clear of the cabin in case it should fall down while he was here. It looked as if all it needed was a strong west wind.
He walked around to the front, grasped the wooden door handle, and pushed. The door dragged the floor. Pistol in his hand, he quickly stepped inside.
Gaskin was not there. Cordell saw several pieces of firewood lying where they had carelessly been dropped on the floor. He took three long strides toward the woodbox and stopped cold. The box was almost empty. The saddlebags were gone.
His first reaction was stunned disbelief. Trembling with a rising anger, he picked up a piece of firewood and hurled it through the glass window. Though he was alone, he shouted, “You miserable thievin’ son of a bitch. You’ve stolen my money!”
It did not seem fair, after all the risk he had endured to take that money, the days he had spent in jail, the wound Buster had suffered in freeing him, only to have a low-down, sneaking thief steal it all.
He tore the cabin a part in a desperate search, thinking Gaskin might have hidden the loot somewhere inside. It was a futile effort.
His indignation gradually cooled enough that he could think with some rationality. He asked himself what a miserable reprobate like Gaskin might likely do first if he suddenly came into such a windfall. He would go to town, of course. He would start spending it the same way Cordell had intended to when he had traveled far enough to feel safe, on good Kentucky whiskey and fiddle music and sweet-smelling women.
He had seldom felt so frustrated. He had partially destroyed Gaskin’s cabin in a search that turned up nothing. He found a shovel and dug in several likely places where the ground looked to have been disturbed. It was a fruitless effort. He considered burning the place out of spite, but the money might still be there, hidden too well for him to find it. Its ashes would do him no good.
He considered the possibility that Gaskin had taken it with him to town, though that would be risky. The farmer had not struck him as being particularly smart, but maybe the old rascal had sense enough to understand that the law would take the money away from him. That being so, he had probably left most of it hidden. It must be around here somewhere.
Cordell could not risk going to town to search for Gaskin. He decided his best choice, though a poor one, was to hide out and wait for Gaskin to return home. If he could get his hands on the old fart, he would turn him inside out until he got his money back. Then he just might break him into little pieces and leave him for the wild hogs he had seen ranging along the river.
He felt a heavy weight of responsibilty for Buster. He should not have left him in the hands of a poor, old darky who had little to offer except good intentions, but he had seen no better choice. It was Cordell’s intention, when he recovered his money, to take him far from here, perhaps back to the home from which he had come. They would hide out in some thinly populated area while Buster recuperated. This region along the lower Colorado River was among the oldest settled parts of the state. Anywhere a man turned, there were people—too many people—and they showed little tolerance for those in Cordell’s chosen occupation.
Off to the southwest stretched a considerable thicket where Cordell thought he could hide while keeping an eye out for Gaskin’s return. He had no provisions. He had not wanted to take the little that Shanty had, and he found nothing in Gaskin’s cabin beyond some coffee and tobacco and moonshine whiskey. Gaskin had several chickens, which evidently had to scratch for their living. He managed to catch one and tie its legs together while it squawked and flapped its wings. It would taste good tonight, roasted over a hidden campfire, with some moonshine to help it go down.
Andy knocked on the doctor’s front door, dreading what he might be told. The doctor’s wife parted a lace curtain and peered out through the oval glass. She did not immediately recognize him.
“I’m Andy Pickard, ma’am. I’ve come to ask about Tom.”
Her solemn expression did not ease his anxiety. She swung the door inward and said, “Dr. Smith can tell you better than I can. Come on in.”
A strong medicine smell assaulted Andy as he entered. The woman motioned toward a chair. Andy sat but was too nervous to remain seated long. He stood up, turning his hat around and around as he stared out the window. Shortly the doctor came into the room, wiping his wet hands on a towel. His white apron was spotted with blood. He smelled of medicinal alcohol. His expression was as solemn as his wife’s.
Andy asked, “How’s Tom?”
“Hanging on by a toenail. He’s a tough old rooster. He has more scars on his hide than a fighting bull. But I’m afraid he doesn’t have much chance.”
Andy looked away. His eyes burned as if they had sand in them.
The doctor frowned. “I don’t suppose you had any luck chasing the ones who did this to him.”
“They got clean away.”
“Maybe not. Judge Tompkins has been on the telegraph. They can’t outrun that.”
Mention of the judge gave Andy a new thought. “The judge ought to have the authority to appoint deputies, shouldn’t he?”
“There is one deputy already, Speck Munson. But I had to give him a sedative. His head is swollen, and he took a deep cut across his temple. He won’t be of use to anybody for a day or two.”
He wasn’t of much use before, Andy thought. “Did Speck tell you what happened?”
“He could not talk much except to say that a big man walked in and surprised him, struck him with a gun barrel. He knew nothing that happened afterward.”
Andy said, “It’s clear that they released Luther Cordell and shot Tom as he rushed in. But I think I managed to wound one of them. He may be layin’ dead out there someplace.”
“A temporary improvement at best. There always seem to be adequate replacements for those of his ilk who fall by the wayside.”
Andy asked, “Could I see Tom before I go?”
“You won’t be able to ask him any questions.”
“I’d just like to see him.”
The doctor ushered Andy into a back room. He found Rusty there, face grim. Rusty seemed to want to say something, but nothing came. Alice sat beside Mrs. Blessing, holding her hand. The two had been close since Alice had nursed the older woman through a long illness.
Anger gripped Andy as he looked down upon the sheriff, lying with all but his pale face covered by a sheet. He said, “We’ve got to do somethin’ about this.”
Rusty nodded but said nothing.
The doctor gave Andy an intense study. “Perhaps you are the one to do it.”
“Maybe I am. I’ll talk to the judge.”
“Tell him you have my backing for anything you intend to do. Tom Blessing has been a friend of mine for a long time.”
“He’s been a friend of everybody.”
Gray-haired Judge Tompkins sat with his heavy horsehide chair turned at an angle from his rolltop desk. He stared solemnly out the window, his mind carrying him somewhere far away. The sound of Andy’s boots thumping on the pine floor startled him. The chair groaned under his weight as he swiveled it around. “I didn’t know you’d come in, Pickard. I was just thinking about Tom.”
“Me, too. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“I understand your posse returned with nothing to show for their trouble.”
“The spirits must’ve been lookin’ the other way, but we’re not through. Tom said yesterday that he wanted to make me a deputy. I turned him down. I wish now I’d taken him up.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed. “We can fix that. I could deputize you.” He took a cigar from a box on his desk and offered it to Andy. Andy declined. Tompkins bit the end from it and stared absently at it for a minute. “But you know that being a deputy in this county would give you no jurisdiction if you pursued a man beyond the county line.”
Andy repeated what he had told Yates, that a pistol carried authority of its own.
The judge said, “But should you arrest a man outside of your jurisdiction, it could cause the case to be thrown out of court.”
“Even if the man is guilty?”
“That is one unfortunate effect of Texas law. It is often honored more in the breach than in the enforcement, but given an accomplished defense attorney . . .” He left the rest for Andy to ponder.
Andy’s mouth twisted as he considered the unfairness of an acquittal based on a technicality.
The judge continued, “You may not have considered another possibility. You have been a Ranger. You know that Rangers are not encumbered by county lines.” He gave Andy a moment to think about it. “I believe I have enough influence in Austin to get your Ranger commission reinstated.”
Andy’s spine tingled. “You’d do that?”
“With the greatest of pleasure. I’ll compose a wire right now, with your consent, of course.”
“You’ve got it, Judge. I didn’t think I’d ever care to be a Ranger again. But for Tom’s sake, I’m ready and rarin’ to go.”
It occurred to Andy that Bethel might not approve. She had been pleased when he took his leave of the Rangers. He hoped she would understand. But if she didn’t . . . well, she had endured many disappointments in the past. One more should not prove too heavy a burden.
The judge said, “Consider yourself a temporary deputy sheriff till we hear from the Rangers. That way you’ll have official sanction for whatever you do, at least within county lines.”
“That’ll be helpful.”
“You won’t have to carry the full weight alone. I’ve sent for another man. I’m going to appoint him interim sheriff pending an election.”
Andy had a sinking feeling. “Who?”
“Farley Brackett. He has had years of experience as a Ranger, and he has already filed for election as sheriff.”
Andy felt as if half the air had gone out of his lungs. He considered backing out of his agreement. The last thing he wanted was close association with Farley, especially in a subordinate position.
He hoped his Ranger appointment came quickly.
He asked, “Have you got the authority to appoint a sheriff?”
“I have to have approval by the commissioners’ court, but that is just a formality. They’ll do what I tell them. I have something on every one of them.”
Andy had heard the same thing from Tom.
The county clerk walked past the door, saw the judge, and turned back. His bow tie hanging loose and his shirt-tail partly out, he was laughing to himself as he entered the room.
The judge said, “Drinkin’ a little early, aren’t you, Bud?”
“Just one,” the clerk said. “There wasn’t any business in my office anyway. And I’m glad I went, because I saw something I wouldn’t expect to see again in a hundred years.”
The judge nodded. “And you’re busting a gut to tell us about it.”
“It’s old Fowler Gaskin. I don’t know where he got it, but he’s waving a handful of money around and drinking it up as fast as he can raise a glass.”
Andy’s jaw dropped. “You’re sure it was Fowler?”
“Nobody else looks like Fowler Gaskin.”
Andy said, “Fowler never had ten dollars at one time in his life. Wherever he got it, it’s a cinch he didn’t break a sweat earnin’ it.”
It took but a moment for Andy to put the pieces together. “Tom arrested Luther Cordell out at Fowler’s place. Cordell didn’t have but a few dollars on him, and yet he had just robbed a bank. I’m bettin’ he hid his loot somewhere at Fowler’s place, and Fowler found it.”
The judge saw the logic. “We’d better go talk to him.”
“The damned old fool will get his head blown off. Cordell will be lookin’ for that money. If he doesn’t find it, he’ll be lookin’ for Fowler.”
Tompkins said, “Perhaps we should let him. Fowler Gaskin’s funeral would be regarded as community betterment.”
“As much as I’d like to be one of Fowler’s pallbearers, we can’t just stand back and allow it to happen.”
They walked together to the saloon. It was regarded as a social center for men of the town and countryside, a respectable place where many a bale of cotton had been sold, many a mule traded, a place where even a preacher could feel at ease, sort of. Sermons had been delivered here by itinerant ministers who had no church. The proprietor seemed pleased to see the judge walk through the door. A tall, angular man dressed in black, he looked more like an undertaker than a bartender. He was a deacon, known for delivering short but pointed sermons to patrons he thought had stayed too long.
He jerked a thumb toward the old man slumped at a table in the corner. “Judge, can you put Gaskin under arrest or somethin’? I won’t sell him any more whiskey, but he won’t leave. Says he’ll sit there till he’s sober, and then I’ll have no excuse for not bringin’ him a fresh bottle. I hate to just take him by the seat of the britches and throw him out. He’s so spindly he’s liable to break.”
The judge gave Gaskin a moment’s frowning study. “Fowler Gaskin, as county judge I am ordering that you be placed under arrest on a charge of being drunk and disorderly. Andy, please take him in hand.”
Gaskin was too light in weight to put up an effective struggle against a husky young man in his twenties. Especially drunk. Andy said, “For a long time now I’ve wanted to do that.”
Gaskin tried to focus his gaze, but it wavered between Andy and the judge. “Arrest me? I ain’t broke no laws. I’ve paid good cash money for my drinks.” He pulled a handful of bills from his pocket to demonstrate. “You got no call to arrest a man that’s got money.”
“Where did you get it?” Andy asked.
“From the Lord Hisself. Who else would’ve put it right there in my cabin? He takes pity on the poor and downtrodden. Ain’t but few men been trod down on more than me.”
“The Lord didn’t have anything to do with that money. It was taken in a Galveston bank robbery.”
“I found it in my cabin, right where the good Lord put it. He does work in mysterious ways.”
“Do you think He intended for you to spend it on whiskey?”
“He didn’t leave no instructions. He must like a little drink hisself, or why would He have put whiskey on this earth?”
Andy wrested the money from Gaskin’s hands and counted while the old man spewed profanity against him and the judge and all others within hearing. The tally was far short of the amount supposed to have been taken in the robbery. Surely Gaskin hadn’t been in town long enough to drink up so much. “Where’s the rest of it, Fowler?”
Gaskin spat on the floor. “I hid it to where there can’t nobody find it but me. Ain’t no use you goin’ to look.”
“Maybe you’re too drunk to see the mess you’re in. You remember the feller you were drinkin’ with, the one Tom Blessing arrested at your place?”
“Nice feller, he was. Shared his whiskey like a true Christian.”
“Some Christian. He’s back on the loose and no doubt lookin’ for his money. He’d skin you alive to make you tell where it is, and then hang you on a meat hook in your own smokehouse.”
Gaskin’s clouded mind seemed unable to grasp the full reality. “He can’t afford to kill me as long as I’m the only one who knows where that money’s at.”
“No, but he could break you up piece by piece. An arm first, and then a leg, and then the other arm. He could start whittlin’ on your ears, and maybe your privates. How long do you think you could keep a secret?”
“He wouldn’t come back, not after bustin’ out of jail. He’s long gone.” The old man rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “You just want to steal my money for yourself. That’s what it is, you’re a damned thief.”
“Cordell will turn this country upside down. Safest place for you right now is in jail.”
Gaskin took a couple of steps backward. “I’m an innocent man. I ain’t stole nothin’ from nobody.”
“Jail is the one place where Cordell can’t come lookin’. Tell me where you hid the money and I’ll put it in there, too, for safekeepin’.”
“No, sir, I ain’t tellin’ nobody. That money’s mine.”
“You’re a damn fool, Fowler. But you always were.”