The remnants of a woodpile lay scattered out back. Cordell hurried in with an armload and went back out to fetch more before it got wet. He whittled shavings from a piece of broken chair to get a fire started. Buster seemed to alternate between chills and fever.
Cordell rolled Buster’s blanket out on the floor near the fire. He said, “You’ll feel better when I get some warm food into you.”
A damp, cold wind ushered in the rain. Cordell felt a chill. He pulled Buster’s blanket up to cover the boy’s shoulders. “Can’t have you catchin’ pneumonia on top of your other troubles.”
He stoked the fire in an effort to heat the room better. He brought in more wood, though it was wet now. Stacked near the fire, it might dry before he had to use it. He made coffee and fried some bacon, but Buster showed little interest in it or even in the candy Cordell had bought. He lay listless, his face hot to the touch. He occasionally murmured words Cordell could not decipher.
“Damn it, kid,” Cordell said, “don’t you go and die on me.”
The last thing he wanted to see was visitors, but there they were, a man and a woman in a wagon. They drew up near the door. The woman climbed down and hurried into the house, out of the rain. The man drove the wagon around back. He unhooked the horses and hurriedly led them to a shed where Cordell had placed his and Buster’s.
The woman was surprised and a little frightened to see Cordell. He would guess her to be a farm wife in her thirties. “We didn’t know anybody was here,” she said, keeping her distance. She shivered, her clothing wet.
Cordell said, “We mean you no harm, ma’am. Get over close to the fire and warm yourself. Me and the boy were just passin’ by and came in out of the rain.”
She complied, holding her arms tightly against her body. “A spring rain can be awfully cold.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sure can.”
The man entered the house with obvious apprehension. He gave Cordell an uneasy study. “I was surprised when I saw two horses in the shed. Been a while since anybody lived in this house. We tried to get here before the rain started.”
“Live around here, do you?” Cordell asked.
“A few miles farther on. We didn’t figure on the rain. Our name is Archer. I’m Daniel. My wife is Patience.” Hesitantly he extended his hand, and Cordell took it.
The woman had glanced at Buster when she entered. Now she gave him a closer look. “I thought he was just sleeping. But now I see that he’s sick.”
“Got himself hurt, ma’am,” Cordell said.
“Has he been to a doctor?”
“We ain’t been anywhere close to one.”
The man knelt beside Buster and pulled the cover back. “Burnin’ up with fever. What happened to him?”
Cordell let his hand ease down toward the pistol on his hip, then caught himself. He saw no sign of a gun on this couple. They were farmers, and no immediate threat. “Got himself shot.”
Archer said, “I’d better not ask you how.”
“I’d as soon you didn’t.”
Archer’s expression indicated that he was making a pretty good guess.
The woman gasped. Her hand went up to her mouth. “You two are outlaws.”
“There’s some would call me that, but this boy ain’t one, not at heart. He just let himself get misled.”
“By who?”
“Mainly me. I was raised better, but somewhere along the way I turned left when I ought to’ve turned right. I’m mortally ashamed for lettin’ this boy follow me down the same road.”
Mrs. Archer said, “I think you’re the man we’ve heard about. They say you killed a sheriff.”
“I’ve never killed anybody in my life, except maybe in the war, and I ain’t even sure about that.”
Archer’s face was grim. “Looks to me like the boy’s dyin’. He needs a doctor real bad.”
“If I take him to one, he faces a stretch in the pen—or worse.”
The woman had gotten past her fear. Severely she said, “I think he’d rather take his chances with the law than to lie here and die in this miserable old house.”
“I just don’t see what I can do.”
Archer glanced at his wife. “There’s somethin’we can do. Patience and me, we can take him to town in the wagon and let you go on by yourself. You could be a good many miles on your way before the law knows anything about it.”
Cordell could not understand these people. They were willing to help without even asking about payment. “You could get in trouble.”
Mrs. Archer said, “We’re all human beings. Anyway, the sheriff is a friend of ours.”
Cordell turned to the door, working his way through a tangle of misgivings. Reluctantly he said, “You’ve got a deal. I’ll harness that team back up for you.” Hurrying outside, he saw that the rain had slackened. He hitched the team to the wagon, then saddled his horse. He decided to leave Buster’s here. Buster wouldn’t need him.
He carried the boy to the wagon and placed him in its bed, making sure the blanket was wrapped tightly around him. The Archers followed him out. Cordell extracted a handful of bills from a saddlebag. “This is for your trouble.”
Archer shook his head, and his wife frowned disapproval. “We’re not doin’ this for money,” Archer said.
“Then why?”
The woman said, “It’s plain to see that you’re not a churchgoing man. If you don’t know, there’s no way we can explain. You’d better be on your way, Mr. Cordell, if you intend to stay ahead of the law.”
Cordell was taken aback by the use of his name. He had not told them what it was. That damned telegraph! A man couldn’t ride fast enough or far enough anymore to get ahead of it.
He watched the wagon move away into a light mist that lingered after the rain had waned. He told himself this was the best thing for Buster. Maybe the law had enough mercy that it wouldn’t hang a green kid, though he probably faced a stretch in Huntsville. At least he would have a chance for a better life once he served his time. Maybe he would stay on a straight road from then on, as Cordell wished he had.
But what if Buster didn’t live? Archer had said he looked to be dying. Cordell tried to deny it to himself, but deep in his soul he knew Archer was right. It might already be too late for a doctor to save the kid. Cordell could leave here now and get away from the law, but he would never get away from Buster. He would always wonder: did the boy make it, or did he not?
Aw hell! he thought. I never did have the sense God gave a jackrabbit.
He set his horse into a lope to catch up to the wagon.
The Archers both looked back over their shoulders. Cordell rode up even with them. They asked no questions, and he offered no explanation. At length Archer said, “You’re takin’ a big chance. From what we hear, the law is lookin’ for you all the way to Austin and San Antonio.”
“Life is like a poker game. Sometimes you hold a good hand, and sometimes you don’t. You play them as they’re dealt and hope for gambler’s luck.”
Mrs. Archer said, “Or pray for providence to intervene.”
It was midway between midnight and dawn when they reached town. Archer pulled the wagon to a stop in front of a house. A wooden sign was attached to the front gate, though Cordell could not read it in the dark. Archer knocked on the door hard enough that Cordell feared he might wake up half the town. Soon a moving lamp cast a dim light through the front window. The door opened. Out came a smallish man in long underwear, unbuttoned trousers, and no shirt. He extended the lamp toward Archer’s face.
Archer said, “It’s an emergency, Doctor.”
“It always is when folks come in the middle of the night.” The doctor carried the lamp to the wagon and peered at the blanket-wrapped figure. “Anybody I know?”
“I doubt it. The kid has got a bullet in him. He’s far gone.”
Cordell dismounted and lifted Buster from the wagon bed. The doctor motioned toward the house, and Cordell followed him to a back room. The doctor said, “Put him down on the bed. I’ll have a look at him.” He apologized to Mrs. Archer for being half-dressed. “Hold the lamp, would you, Mr. Archer?” He folded the blanket back, opened Buster’s shirt, and gazed with disbelief at the wound. He demanded, “Who the hell put this bandage on him?”
Cordell said apologetically, “It’s all I had.”
“Damned poor job.” The old bandage was stiff with dried blood. He stripped it away and said, “I hope the bullet was taken out, at least.”
Cordell said, “I tried. Couldn’t get it.”
“How long has it been in there?”
Cordell counted. “Four days, I think. Maybe five. I lost track.”
Angrily the doctor said, “You let him languish to the point of death, then expect me to save him? He should have seen a doctor right away. That bullet has poisoned his blood.”
Cordell had sensed it but had denied it to himself. “What chance has he got?”
“There’s no point in lying to you. I doubt that God himself could bring him back.”
Cordell slumped into a wooden chair. His throat was constricted, and his eyes burned. Must be that smoky lamp, he thought.
The doctor’s tone softened. “Is he your son?”
Cordell shook his head. “I wouldn’t have led my son into a mess like this. And I shouldn’t have let that boy get into it, either. I’d give anything . . .” He broke off.
Mrs. Archer’s eyes showed pity. “Maybe you’d better get away while you can. We’ll stay here with him. He won’t die alone.”
“No, I’ll stay. I won’t blame you if you send for the law.”
Archer said, “We won’t do that till the boy is gone. Even then, we’ll try to give you a little time.”
“Why?”
“It’s plain to see that you did what you could for him, except gettin’ him to a doctor. A lot of men in your situation would’ve gone off and left him.”
“I ain’t so noble that it didn’t cross my mind.”
Patience Archer said, “That’s the first step toward redemption, facing temptation without giving in to it.”
“I’m afraid I’m beyond redemption.”
“No man is beyond redemption until he draws his last breath.”
Buster called out weakly, “Cordell. Where are you?”
Cordell left the chair and gripped Buster’s hand. “I’m here. I wasn’t goin’ anyplace without you.”
“Cordell, am I dyin’?”
Cordell swallowed, trying to think of an answer he could give without lying. He saw none. “No, kid, you’re goin’ to be all right.”
“I heard the doctor.” Buster began to weep. “I don’t want to die.”
Cordell was too badly choked to say anything.
Buster pleaded, “Don’t tell my mother . . . I don’t want her . . . to know what I done.”
Cordell wanted to speak but nothing came.
Buster murmured, “God, it hurts so bad.”
He drifted into sleep. Head bowed, Mrs. Archer began to pray in a whisper. She reached out to her husband, taking his hand, then reached toward Cordell. He was uncertain what was expected of him, but he bowed his head as she had and took her hand while she continued her prayer. He could not remember the last time he had heard someone pray. Though confused and ashamed for his shortcomings, he took warmth from the compassion of these strangers.
Buster slipped so quietly into death that Cordell was not sure just when the passage came. The doctor covered Buster’s face with the blanket, then moved toward the window. “Sunup,” he said to Cordell. “The sheriff will open his office in a little while. I’ll have to tell him. If you’re going to leave, you’d better get started.”
Cordell struggled for control of his voice. “I’m obliged to you, ma’am, for the prayer. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to the Lord, I guess I’ve forgotten how. And I’m afraid He’s forgotten about me.”
She said, “He never forgets anyone. If it’s any comfort, your young friend is now in His care.”
“It’s better care than I gave him.” Cordell laid his hand on the blanket that covered Buster. “I’m thankin’ you both. You done more than anybody like me had a right to expect.” He turned toward the doctor. “I’m leavin’ you some money. I wish you’d see that he gets a decent burial with a preacher to read over him. And get him a proper headstone.”
“Anything you want put on it?”
“Just that his real name was David Jackson. And that he was a good boy.” Cordell blinked his burning eyes. “I’ve got to let his mother know somehow. I can’t just let her wonder what ever became of him.”
“You heard what he said.”
“I can tell a good story when I have to. He was shot tryin’ to protect some folks from a robber. If any of his family ever comes askin’, I hope you won’t tell them different.”
The rising sun caught Cordell squarely in the eyes as he walked outside. It brought tears.
Riding away from town in an easy lope that he hoped would not overtax a horse already tired, Cordell felt as if a hundred-pound weight had settled in the bottom of his stomach. He kept seeing Buster’s fevered face and rehashing the things he might have done differently. He had had more than one chance to take Buster to a doctor. He had told himself he held back out of fear that the boy might be hanged. Now he wondered if that had been the real reason. Maybe his stronger fear had been for himself.
It changed nothing to brood over past mistakes, but he could not help it. If thirty lashes across his back would relieve him of his guilt, he would welcome them.
He slowed to a trot to ease the stress on his horse, but he looked back often, half expecting to see someone catching up. The ground was still wet from the rain, and his tracks were more visible because of it. He would be easy to trail. He looked for a well-traveled road where his tracks might be lost among others, though this meant more people would see him. The old notices would describe him as heavily bearded and wearing different clothes, but the Archers and the doctor were sure to give the authorities a more current picture of him.
He came to a road perpendicular to the westerly direction he had been traveling. It had seen some traffic since the rain. Two freight wagons approached from the left. He turned to the right, two hundred yards ahead of the wagons, hoping the hooves and the iron rims would obliterate his tracks or at least cause confusion and lost time to anyone trying to follow.
He sensed that they might be Rangers, hard men to shake loose from. In the wild days of Reconstruction after the war, the Rangers had been disbanded. A unionist government had organized an alternative, a state police force. Most of these men could not find their butt with both hands. For someone of Cordell’s persuasion, those had been good times.
Late in the morning he saw a farmer in a distant field, working two mules to a plow, and envied him. The farmer didn’t have an ill-starred kid weighing heavily on his conscience. He had probably left a comfortable house at sunup after his wife fixed him a good breakfast and perhaps a lunch to carry with him to the field. Tonight he could go home to a hot supper—maybe even pie or cake—and share a soft bed with his woman. If he ever felt compelled to look back over his shoulder, as Cordell was doing, it would only be in hope that he would see a good rain coming over the horizon.
Cordell could not remember the last time he had enjoyed pie or cake, much less a woman.
We harvest what we plant, he thought. Sometimes wheat, sometimes weeds. Looks like all I’ve sowed is weeds.
Len’s never-ending talk had made the miles seem shorter. Sometimes Andy paid little attention to the words, but it had been comforting to hear the constant rise and fall of Len’s voice and know he was not alone. He was alone now, and since leaving town he had seen nobody except a couple of farmers.
A house lay just off to his right. He decided to go ask a few questions. Though he had found no trail he could be certain was Cordell’s, his instincts told him he was traveling in the right direction.
A window was broken out, and a few shingles were gone from the roof. The place was obviously vacant. He had a gut feeling that he should check it anyway. His Comanche hunches had a hair-raising way of being correct from time to time. A vacant house would be a good place for the fugitives to lay up.
Even if he saw Cordell, he was not certain he would recognize him. The times he had seen the man, a thick beard had covered most of his face. He might look different if he shaved it off. But a shave would not change the eyes, and Andy remembered the eagle sharpness of Cordell’s.
Horse and wagon tracks were plain in the drying mud. Someone had been here recently. Dismounting, Andy looked closely at the horse tracks. He did not see the twisted hoof-print Len had shown him earlier.
A dun horse nickered and ambled out from behind the old house, curious about Andy’s mount. Andy felt a tingle of excitement. This could be one of those he saw at the jailbreak. He circled around to look at the tracks the horse left. He recognized the print and drew the rifle from beneath his leg. Cordell might be in that house.
Andy’s mouth went dry. He tied his horse and approached from the front, crouching to make a more difficult target. He jumped up on the small front porch and threw his back against the wall in case someone came out shooting. Nobody did. He rushed through the door, holding his pistol at a level that would take a man in the brisket. The worn pine floor creaked under the weight of his boots. He saw no one. The place was as dead as an Indian graveyard.
He saw dried mud on the floor and coals in the fireplace, still warm. He was certain the fugitives had been here, but they had been on horseback. Andy wondered about the fresh wagon tracks. One of the men was wounded. It could be that the wagon had carried him away. That would explain why his horse was still here.
Cordell had probably kidnapped whoever had happened along in the wagon. Perhaps he had killed them. He had not had time to go far. Andy hurried out toward his tied horse. The horse and wagon tracks headed westward. Even I ought to be able to follow those, he thought.
Cordell had the devil’s own luck, but maybe this time his luck was running out.
Andy had ridden for an hour or so when he met two freight wagons coming eastward. He signaled for the lead driver to stop. The bewhiskered man first gave him a quizzical look and seemed disinclined to obey. Andy wished he had a badge to show him, but the state had not yet seen fit to issue them to the Rangers. Len had had a silversmith make his from a Mexican peso. He had paid for it himself.
“I’m a Ranger,” Andy shouted. “Pull up.”
The driver sawed on the lines and brought his team to a halt. “We don’t stop these wagons for just anybody,” he said. “I couldn’t tell you was the law.”
“Did you meet a wagon along the way?”
“Just one. There was a farmer and his wife on the seat and a sick man layin’ behind them. They said they was takin’ him to town.”
“Anybody else with them?”
“Big feller on horseback. Are they charged with some-thin’?”
“Two of them are. They killed a sheriff.”
The driver hunched his shoulders as if he had taken a chill. “Glad we didn’t have nothin’ they’d want. That big man had a dark look about him. He may not be took easy.”
“I’ll take him.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The driver shook his head. “It’s no wonder they’ve buried so many of you Rangers.”
Andy said, “They ain’t goin’ to bury this one anytime soon.”
Though he burned to break into a run, he held to a moderate pace. He did not want to be set afoot, leading a wrung-out mount.
Darkness caught him soon after he left the teamsters. Clouds obscured the stars and moon. It was about to get as dark as the inside of a tar barrel. He wanted to keep riding, but he knew he was likely to lose the tracks. Moreover, he had pushed his horse hard. At least, he knew his quarry was headed for town.
He staked his mount and the pack mule. He made coffee over a small fire and tried to content himself with a strip of beef jerky. It was like chewing a dry cowhide. The only flavor came from the pepper and salt applied in the drying. To him, jerky was the next thing to nothing. But when he had nothing else to eat, jerky had its compensations.
About the middle of the next morning, the wagon tracks led him within sight of town. There they were lost amid a multitude of newer tracks. He had been here before and remembered that the town was a county seat. He saw its courthouse from half a mile away, its cupola reaching far above its second floor. From a quarter mile, Andy heard the loud strike of its clock. He recalled having been here as witness in a trial. Court had to stop and wait while the bell shook the building and made more racket than three lawyers yelling at the same time.
This was a typical farming town for its part of south-central Texas, a cotton gin standing alone and silent at the edge of the settlement. Last year’s crop had been ginned, and this year’s harvest was months away. Andy’s fingers itched as he remembered how the dry hulls scratched when he pulled the bolls. It was another reason he had no wish to spend his life as a farmer.
He wished Len were here, though neither would know just where to start looking. He could imagine Len asking, “Ain’t there some Indian spirit you can call up?”
Perhaps he could, if he could talk to a Comanche medicine man. But they were long since gone, either dead or exiled to Indian Territory. Still, he reasoned, if those people were bringing the wounded man to town, they would be looking for a medicine man, a white one.
At a loading dock on the side of a general store, a clerk wearing a tie and an apron was loading groceries into a wagon. Andy rode up to him and asked, “You got a doctor in this town?”
The clerk pointed. “Doc Satterwhite, down the street yonder on the opposite side. He’s pretty good if you’re not too sick.”
“Much obliged.”
He found the house by a sign on the yard gate. He doubted that Cordell was still there, but if he was, he would flush like a quail.
If Len were here, one could take the front door, the other the back. As it was, Andy walked up to the front door and knocked. He dropped his hand to his pistol and held his breath until a woman peered at him through a curtain. She swung the door open. Andy took a quick look inside before he moved. He saw nothing in the front room that caused alarm. He could hear a child whining and a mother’s soothing voice in a back room.
The woman at the door asked, “What can we do for you?”
“I’m a Ranger, ma’am. Did somebody bring a wounded man in here last night?”
“Yes, the Archers from out on Branch Creek.”
“Is he still here?”
“I’m sorry to say that he is not.”
Andy heard a man’s voice in the next room. “Excuse me, Mrs. Johnson. I’ll be right back.” A middle-aged, little man with a carefully trimmed mustache and goatee came out into the front parlor. “I’m Dr. Satterwhite. I heard you ask about a wounded man. Friend of yours?”
“He’s a fugitive. I’ve been trailin’ him and an older man for several days.”
The doctor frowned. “I did what I could, but it was already too late. It always hurts to see a young man die in such a miserable way. Whoever put that bullet in him has no reason to be proud of himself.”
Andy felt as if the doctor had hit him with a sledge. “It was me,” he admitted. “I aimed at somebody else, but the wrong man got in the way.”
The doctor’s severe countenance softened as he recognized Andy’s regret. “It should not have been a fatal wound. He could have lived if he had received proper attention early enough.”
“I reckon we were pressin’ him and Cordell too hard.”
“Cordell?” The doctor said. “That’s the name the sheriff and the Archers used. The sheriff said he’s a bad one.”
Andy said, “Bad enough.”
“Funny thing, though, for a bad man. He wept when that boy died. You’d have thought he had lost his own son. He left money for a decent Christian burial and asked me to buy a headstone.”
“Did he give you a name? All we know is that the boy was called Buster.”
“I wrote it down. It was David Jackson.”
“Did Cordell mention where he came from?”
“No. I heard the boy beg him not to let his mother know how he died. Cordell promised.”
Andy considered for a moment. “The people that brought Jackson in . . . I hope Cordell didn’t do them any harm.”
“Quite the contrary. He thanked them for their help. Mrs. Archer told me he even tried to give them money, but they wouldn’t take it.”
“Odd. Most outlaws aren’t much on givin’ money away. But I guess he didn’t put much work into gettin’ it.”
The doctor said, “On the contrary again, I’d say he paid a high price.”
The sheriff was a portly man named Mitchell, well into middle age and walking with heavy dependence on a cane. He explained that he had suffered a broken leg a few months ago, trying to stop a runaway team of mules. He said, “I halfway been expectin’ you. A wire from your state office said you might come along lookin’ for Luther Cordell. They asked me to lend you any assistance.”
Andy said, “A wounded kid was brought to town last night. Cordell was with him.”
“I know. I talked to the Archers. They said he left about daylight. Everybody was careful not to watch which way he went. I’ve sent two deputies out to try and pick up his trail, but I don’t hope for much. Too many roads leadin’ out of here, and too much traffic.”
Mitchell related the description the Archers had given. Andy was not surprised to learn that Cordell had shaved off his beard and cut his hair. Mitchell said, “Mrs. Archer told me she was scared of him at first, but she got over it when she saw how upset he was about that boy. Said a man couldn’t be all bad if he had them kind of feelin’s.”
“Didn’t seem like he had much feelin’ for Tom Blessing.”
“It’s hard to understand the criminal class. They ain’t hooked up the same as me and you.”
Andy said, “I’d just as well wait and see if your deputies find anything. I could use a good meal anyway.”
Mitchell opened a desk drawer and offered a drink. Andy demurred. Mitchell took a swallow and almost choked.
“Prime moonshine,” he said. “A cousin of mine makes it.”
Andy said, “That’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“There’s good laws, and there’s bad laws. I don’t enforce the bad ones. A man ought to be able to do what he wants to with his own corn crop.” Mitchell dismissed the subject. “Hadn’t you better take a look at the body? Confirm that this David Jackson is the man you shot?”
“I only saw him at some distance, but I’ll go see.”
They walked over to the undertaker’s. The kid lay covered in a coffin balanced across two sawhorses. The undertaker was finishing a wooden lid. He stopped to uncover the face.
Though Andy had not had a good look at Jackson, he studied the peaceful features and knew instinctively that this was the rider he had shot. Regret settled over him like a shroud. “He’s nothin’ but a kid.”
Mitchell said, “You acted in the line of duty.”
“He’s no less dead.”
“I’ve killed a couple of men that needed it real bad, but they still laid heavy on my conscience. You have to look at it as part of your job. When you wear the badge, you take what comes with it.”
Andy tried for consolation. “I guess if I hadn’t shot him, somebody else would’ve. He was marked when he took up with the wrong kind of company.” He felt a rising of anger against Cordell. “What kind of a man would lead an innocent kid into a life that was likely to get him killed?”
Mitchell suggested, “Maybe he never was all that innocent. Some of the worst criminals I ever saw was preachers’ sons.”
The undertaker said, “Brother Jones will preach the funeral at two o’clock up at the burying ground. The Archers said they’ll be there.” He looked like a preacher himself.
Mitchell said, “Even an outlaw kid deserves a few mourners. I’ll go.”
Andy covered Buster’s face. “Me, too. I owe him that much. And I’d like to talk to the Archers.”
Standing beside the open grave, Bible in his hand, the minister delivered a fervent preachment against young men taking the wrong road in life. Andy was the only young man present to hear it. The gathering was small, just the sheriff, the Archers, and a few townspeople who came mostly out of curiosity, or perhaps for lack of anything better to do. The brief ceremony closed with each person dropping a handful of sand into the grave. It made a soft, whispering sound, falling upon the pine lid of the plain coffin.
The Archers were grim-faced as they turned away. Andy hurried to catch up to them. He identified himself as a Ranger and said, “I’d like you to tell me anything you can about Cordell.”
The man and his wife glanced at one another before Archer answered, “We don’t know much to tell you. We only saw him for a little while. It was not the kind of situation that calls for a lot of talk.”
“What did he look like?”
Archer described him as large, muscular, clean-shaven except for a two- or three-day growth of whiskers. “He could be any farmer you’d meet travelin’ down the road.”
Mrs. Archer said, “He was overcome with grief and remorse. Like a father who has just lost his son.”
Andy said, “You know, don’t you, that he has a price on his head?”
“So we heard, but he did not strike us as the badman the sheriff described him to be. You should have seen how gentle he was with that boy. Had I not known otherwise, I could more easily have taken him for a preacher than an outlaw.” Mrs. Archer looked to her husband for confirmation, and he nodded in solemn agreement.
Archer said, “He swore to us that he never killed anybody. He acted like a man who truly wants to change his ways. We know you consider it your duty to capture him, but couldn’t you somehow just lose his trail and let him get out of the country? He wouldn’t be the first outlaw who ever got away.”
Mrs. Archer said, “We have heard that under extreme circumstances the Rangers have been known to act as judge and jury. Couldn’t you be a judge in this case? A lenient one?”
The suggestion left Andy off-balance. “That would be against the oath I took as a Ranger. Anyway, somebody killed one of the best friends I ever had. Maybe it was Cordell, and maybe it wasn’t. Either way, I’ve got to find out for myself. That means stayin’ on his trail.”
Archer said, “Then I’m afraid we can’t wish you luck.”
Mrs. Archer added, “If you do find him, please try to take him without bloodshed. I believe he’s a better man than you give him credit for. Perhaps better even than he knows.”
The couple walked away arm in arm, leaving Andy shaking his head. How could a man with a record like Cordell’s so easily turn strangers into friends?