Текст книги "Dead Man's Walk"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

“Look yonder, ain’t that Bigfoot’s horse?” Blackie Slidell said. “That’s his big sorrel, I believe.”

The mood of the whole troop lifted at the thought of joining up again with Bigfoot Wallace. Shadrach was a commendable scout, more experienced than Bigfoot in the ways of the wilderness, but Shadrach was ill tempered, with a tendency to growl and snarl if approached when he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He didn’t like to talk and had no interest in sharing his information with men who lacked his experience. He might help, if the mood struck him, or he might just ride away.

Bigfoot Wallace, on the other hand, loved to talk. He was a gifted explainer—once when a little drunk he had spent an hour lecturing Call and Gus on three sets of horse tracks they had come across. He told them everything he knew about the tracks—why he knew they were Mexican horses, how heavy the riders were, when the tracks had been made, and what, in his judgment, the condition of the animals was who had made the tracks. The two of them had gone off and located another set of tracks; they tried to apply a few of the things Bigfoot had taught them, but with poor success. About all they knew about their set of tracks was that they were horse tracks—as to the weight or nationality or general health of the men riding their horses, they could only speculate. In fact, they were so green when it came to tracking, that they couldn’t even be sure anyone was riding the horses. They might merely have been horses grazing along. Of course, they both did know that the horses were unshod, but that was as far as their training took them.

“Maybe he’s killed a wild pig,” Gus said. “We could eat it.” Bigfoot’s horse was still quite a distance away—there was as yet no sign of the tall man himself.

“I’d rather he killed a fat doe, myself,” Rip Green said. “I’d a bunch rather eat some tender venison than that old tough pig meat.”

“Them corn cakes don’t stick to the ribs,” Gus said. “Melly’s pretty, though.”

“Yes, you were ready to run off with her, I noticed,” Matilda said. Even though it had been dark, Gus’s response to the young woman had not escaped her attention.

“Maybe that cyclone caught Bigfoot,” Long Bill said. “That may just be his nag. He may have got blown away.”

“Not likely,” Gus said. “I imagine he got down in a buffalo wallow, like we did.”

“There might not have been no buffalo wallow handy,” Johnny Carthage said. “That twister might have caught Bigfoot out on the flat.”

The relief everybody in the troop had felt at the thought that they would soon have a reliable guide to lead them over the prairies to Austin went away, to be replaced by dread. The experience beyond the Pecos had left its mark on all of them—even in the comparatively settled country between San Antonio and Austin, the Comanche and Kiowa lurked, running off horses and occasionally even beeves. The plain ahead of them, where they saw Bigfoot’s horse, was wide and empty—the last thicket that might provide cover was behind them, back near the smashed cabin. The sight of Bigfoot Wallace would have made every man feel a good deal more confident of reaching Austin alive.

“Dern, it’s just his horse,” Rip Green said. “I bet that storm spooked his sorrel, like it did our nags. Bigfoot’s probably on foot, looking for his horse right now.”

They loped on across the wide prairie, which wasn’t as flat as it looked. It rolled a little, and dipped. When they were a hundred yards from the sorrel horse they looked down into a little dip and saw the man they had been talking about: Bigfoot Wallace. He was kneeling by two blackened wagons, digging in the dirt with a large bowie knife.

“Now what’s he doing digging, out on the prairie?” Long Bill asked. “Do you think he’s digging for onions, or spuds of some kind?”

Bigfoot stopped digging when he saw the group approaching. They all waved, even though they were a hundred yards away. Bigfoot didn’t wave. He watched a minute, and then returned to his digging.

Call was a little ahead of the troop—there was a smell in the air that Call had never smelled before, a burned smell with a sweetness in it like cooked meat sometimes had when the meat was fresh. When old Jesus roasted a baby lamb in its skin it sometimes smelled like what they were smelling then.

Then, abruptly, Call saw what Bigfoot was doing—he stopped his horse, causing Gus, who was just behind him, to ride into him.

“Whoa, what is it?” Gus asked, confused for a moment.

“Bigfoot ain’t digging onions,” Call said.

“What is he digging, then?” Long Bill asked—he was too nearsighted to see clearly what young Call saw.

“He’s digging a grave,” Call said.

THE RANGER TROOP APPROACHED, but too slowly to suit Bigfoot Wallace. He had already cut the blackened corpses of the two mule skinners loose from the wagon wheels where they had been tied. Though he had smelled burned human flesh before, he didn’t like to smell it, and he was anxious to get the burying over with in case the Indians who had burned the two men chose to come back and try him.

“Are you men praying? If you ain’t, get down and help me,” he said impatiently.

“Oh Lord, look!” Rip Green said. He barely was .off his horse before he began to puke. Gus didn’t dare look, really—he threw the briefest glance at the two blackened corpses and turned his eyes away. Even so, his stomach rose—he rode off a few steps, hoping to get the smell out of his nostrils before he had to dismount and puke like Rip.

Call got down and immediately began to help Bigfoot. He tried not to look at the two corpses but could not help seeing that their teeth were bared in the agony in which they died. There were ashes in front of the wagon wheels they had been tied to. A twist of smoke still rose in front of the fires.

Call did have a good knife. Old Jesus had forged it for him, sharpened it carefully, and bound the handle with tight rawhide. Call dug hard—it was the only way he could keep his mind off what had happened to the two men. One of the burned wagons was still smouldering. It was only then, when he glanced up, that he noticed that the prairie around the wagon was white: the two mule skinners had been hauling flour, and the Indians had ripped up the sacks and scattered the flour on the grass.

“Lordy, these boys weren’t lucky,” Long Bill observed philosophically, walking around the scene of the torture.

“Nope, and they weren’t prepared, either,” Bigfoot said. “I guess that old shotgun was the only weapon they had with them.” He nodded toward the shotgun, which had been broken in two on a large rock that stuck up from the ground.

“I wouldn’t set off with a load of flour and nothing to defend myself with except a fowling piece—not in this country,” Blackie Slidell remarked.

“There’s empty sacks in that other wagon that ain’t too burned,” Bigfoot said. “Go get a few, Gus, and roll these men in them. We need to move out. I make it about nine Indians that cooked these men, and one of them was Buffalo Hump.”

“Did you see him?” Johnny Carthage asked, turning white. All the Rangers touched their weapons, to make sure they were still there.

“No, but he’s still riding that painted pony he rode that day he killed Josh and Zeke,” Bigfoot said. “I studied his track, in case I ever had to fight him again, and his track is all around these wagons.”

“Oh, Lord—I was afraid it was him,” Rip Green said. He was white and shaky.

Johnny Carthage knew a little cobbling. He had been offered a job making shoes in San Antonio. Looking at the two burned wagoneers, their bodies blackened and swollen, their teeth bared in terrible grimaces, he wondered why he hadn’t had the good sense to take the job. Cobbling down by the San Antonio River had a lot to recommend it. It wasn’t exciting, but neither would it expose you to the risk of being caught on the open prairie, roped to a wagon wheel, and burned to death. Of course, he could go back and take the job—the old cobbler liked him—but he was already a long ride out of San Antonio, and would run the very risk he wanted to avoid if he tried to go back alone.

“I wish there was more timber on this road,” Blackie Slidell said. “I don’t know if we could whip nine of those rascals if they came charging and we had nothing to hide behind.”

“Nine’s about the right size for a raiding party,” Bigfoot observed. He had about finished his digging. The grave wasn’t deep enough, but it would have to do.

“Why?” Call asked.

“Why what?” Bigfoot replied. The youngster was a good digger, and besides, he was steady. Of all the troop, he was the least affected by the sight of charred bodies. Of course, Long Bill wasn’t shaking or puking, but Long Bill was notorious for his bad eyesight. He probably hadn’t come close enough to take a good look.

“Why is nine a good size?” Call asked, as Gus handed him an armful of sacks. He spread one layer of sacking over each man, and then rolled the bodies over and tucked another layer of sacking over their backsides. It was curious how stiff bodies got—the dead men’s limbs were as stiff as wood.

“Nine’s about right,” Bigfoot said, impressed that young Call was eager to learn, even while performing an unpleasant task. “Nine men who know the country can slip between the settlements without being noticed. They can watch the settlers and figure out which farms to attack. If there’s a family with four or five big strapping boys who look like they can shoot, they’ll leave it and go on to one where there’s mostly womenfolk.”

Matilda Roberts stood looking at the corpses as Call and Gus finished covering them with sacking. She recognized one of the men; his name was Eli, and he had come to her more than once.

“That nearest one is Eli Baker,” she said. “He worked in the flour mill. I know him by his ear.”

“What about his ear?” Bigfoot asked.

“Look at it, before you rake the dirt over him,” Matilda said. “He got half his ear cut off when he was a boy—the bottom half. That’s Eh Baker for sure. We ought to try to get word to his family. I believe he had several young ‘uns.”

“And a wife?” Bigfoot asked.

“Well, he didn’t have the young ‘uns himself,” Matilda said. “I ain’t seen him in a year or two, but I know he’s Eli Baker.”

When the corpses were covered, everyone stood around awkwardly for a minute. The wide prairie was empty, though the tall grass sang from the breeze. The sun shone brilliantly. Bigfoot took the stock of the broken shotgun and tamped the dirt solidly over the grave of the two wagoneers.

“If anybody knows a good scripture, let them say it,” Bigfoot said. “We need to skedaddle. I’d rather not have to race no Comanches today—my horse is lame.”

“There’s that scripture about the green pastures,” Long Bill recalled. “It’s about the Lord being a shepherd.”

“So say it then, Bill,” Bigfoot said. He caught his horse and waited impatiently to mount.

Long Bill was silent.

“Well, there’s the green pastures,” he said. “That’s all I can recall. It’s been awhile since I had any dealings with scriptures.”

“Can anyone say it?” Bigfoot asked.

“Leadeth me beside the still waters,” Matilda said. “I think that’s the one Bill’s talking about.”

“Well, this is a green pasture, at least,” Bigfoot said. “It’ll be greener, if it keeps raining.”

“I wonder why people want to say scriptures when they’ve buried somebody?” Call reflected to Gus as they were trotting on toward Austin. “They’re dead—they can’t hear no holy talk.”

Gus had the scared feeling inside again. The Indian who had nearly brought him down with a lance was somewhere around. He might be tracking them, or watching them, even then. He might be anywhere, with his warriors. They were approaching a little copse of live-oak trees thick enough to conceal a party of Comanches. What if Buffalo Hump and his warriors suddenly burst out, yelling their terrible war cries? Would he be able to shoot straight? Would he have the guts to fire a bullet through his eyeball if the battle went against them? Would he end up burned, swollen, and stiff, like the two men they had just buried? Those were the important questions, when you were out on the prairie where the wild men lived. Why people said scriptures over the dead was not an issue he could concentrate his mind on, not when he had the scared feeling in hisstomach. Even if he could have had the pork chop his mouth had been watering for the night before, he had no confidence that he could have kept it down.

“It’s the custom,” he said, finally. “People get to thinking of heaven, when people die.”

Call didn’t answer. He was wondering what the mule skinners were thinking and feeling when the Comanches tied them to the wagon wheels and began to build fires under them. Were they thinking of angels, or just wishing they could be dead?

“As soon as we get to Austin, I want to buy a better gun,” he said. “I mean to practice, too. If we’re going on this expedition, we need to learn to shoot.”

Toward evening, the sky darkened again toward the southwest. Once again the sky turned coal black, with only a thin line of light at the horizon. The rolls of thunder were so loud that the Rangers had to give up conversation.

“It might be another cyclone,” Blackie yelled. “We need to look for a gully or a ditch.”

This time, though, no twisting snake cloud formed, though a violent thunderstorm slashed at them for some fifteen minutes, drenching them all. They expected a wet, cold night but by good fortune came upon a big live-oak tree that lightning had just struck. The tree had been split right in two. Part of the tree was still blazing, when the rain began to diminish. It made a good hot fire and enabled everybody to strip off and dry their clothes. Matilda, far from shy, stripped off first—Call was reluctant to take all his clothes off in her presence, but Gus wasn’t. He didn’t have a cent, but hoped the sight of him would incline Matilda to be friendly, or a little more than friendly, later in the evening—a hope that was disappointed. Bigfoot had Buffalo Hump on his mind: there was a time for sport, and a time to keep a close watch. None of the Rangers slept much —but the blazing fire was some comfort. By midnight, when it was Call’s turn to watch, the sky was cloudless and the stars shone bright.

CALEB COBB AND HIS sour captain, Billy Falconer, enlisted the six Rangers for the expedition against New Mexico immediately. The Rangers simply walked up to the hotel where the enlistments were being handled, and the matter was done.

Billy Falconer was a dark little snipe of a man, with quick eyes, but Caleb Cobb was large; to Call he appeared slow. He stood a good six foot five inches, and had long, flowing blond hair. On the table in front of him, when he cast his lazy gaze over the men who hoped to go with him on the expedition, were two Walker Colt pistols, the latest thing in weaponry. Call would have liked one of the Walkers—at least he would have liked to hold one and heft it, though of course he knew that such fine guns were far beyond his means.

“There’s no wages, this is volunteer soldiering,” Caleb Cobb pointed out at once. “All we furnish is ammunition and grub.”

“When possible, we expect you to rustle your own grub, at that,” Captain Falconer said.

Caleb Cobb had a deep voice—he kept a deck of cards in his hand, and shuffled them endlessly.

“This is a freeman’s army—only we won’t call it an army,” Caleb said.

“I wouldn’t call it an army anyway, if these fellows outside the hotel are specimens of the soldiers,” Bigfoot said.

Caleb Cobb smiled, or half smiled. Billy Falconer’s eyes darted everywhere, whereas Caleb scarcely opened his. He leaned back in a big. chair and watched the proceedings as if half asleep.

“Mainly we’re a trading expedition, Mr. Wallace,” Caleb Cobb said after a moment. “St. Louis has had the Santa Fe business long enough. Some of us down here in the Texas Republic think we ought to go up there and capture a bunch of it for ourselves.”

“That crowd outside is mostly bankers and barbers,” Bigfoot said. “If they want to trade, that’s fine, but what are we going to do for fighting men if the Mexicans decide they don’t like our looks?”

“That ain’t your worry, that’s ours,” Captain Falconer snapped.

“It’s mine if I’m taking my scalp over in that direction,” Bigfoot said.

“Why, we’ll gather up some fighters, here and there,” Caleb said. “Captain Billy Falconer’s such a firebrand I expect he could handle the Mexican army all by himself.”

“If he’s such a scrapper then let him go handle Buffalo Hump,” Bigfoot suggested. “He and his boys cooked two mule skinners yesterday, not thirty miles from this hotel.”

“Why, the ugly rascal,” Falconer said, grabbing one of the Walker Colts. “I’ll get up a party and go after him right now. You boys can come if you’re game.”

“Whoa, now, Billy,” Caleb Cobb said. “You can go chase violent Comanches if you want to, but you ain’t taking one of my new pistols. That humpback man might get the best of you, and then I’d be out a gun.”

“Oh—I thought one of these was mine,” Falconer said. He put the gun back on the table with a sheepish look.

“It ain’t,” Cobb said, sitting up a little straighter. Then he looked at Bigfoot again, and let his sleepy eyes drift over the troop. Call didn’t like the man’s manner—he considered it insolent. But he was conscious that he and Gus were the youngest men in the troop—it was not his place to speak.

“When are we leaving, then?” Bigfoot asked.

“Day after tomorrow, if General Lloyd gets here,” Caleb said. “The roads down Houston way are said to be muddy—they’re generally muddy. I guess the General may be stuck.”

“General Lloyd?” Bigfoot asked, a little surprised. “I scouted for the man a few years back. Why are we taking a general, if this is a trading expedition?”

“It never hurts to have a general in tow, especially if you’re dealing with Mexicans,” Cobb said. “They like to deal with the jefe, in my experience. If they get runctious we can hang a few medals on Phil Lloyd and send him in to parley with the governor of Santa Fe —it might spare us some hostilities.”

“I’d rather avoid hostilities, if we can,” Caleb added, shuffling his cards.

“I’d rather avoid them myself—we’ll be outnumbered fifty to one,” Bigfoot commented. “The reason General Lloyd ain’t here is because he got drunk and got lost. The man was dead drunk the whole time I scouted for him, and he got lost every time he stepped out of his tent to piss. He couldn’t find Mexico if you pointed him south and gave him a year, and what’s more, he can’t ride.”

Caleb Cobb chuckled. “Well, he can ride in a wagon, and if he can’t we’ll tie him in,” he said.

“Our mounts are a little on the feeble side,” Long Bill put in. “What do we do about horses?”

“You look like seasoned men,” Caleb said. “The Republic of Texas will furnish you a horse apiece—Billy, sign them some chits. Half the men in Austin are horse traders—I expect you can find good mounts.”

“What about guns? Mine’s a poor weapon,” Call asked. “I would like to replace it if possible, before we leave.”

“Guns are your lookout,” Captain Falconer snapped. “If you’re Rangers I guess you’re drawing Rangers’ pay. You can buy your own guns.”

“No, I think some new guns would be a sound investment, Billy,” Caleb said. “I expect the Mexicans will welcome us with open arms and probably cook a few goats and lay us out a feast. But folks are unpredictable. If the Mexicans get fractious it would be good if we’re well armed, so we can shoot the damn bastards. Tell the quartermaster to help these gentlemen arm themselves proper.”

“So what’s our route, Colonel?” Bigfoot inquired.

“You’re too full of questions—we ain’t figured out the route,” Falconer snapped. “We ain’t got all day to stand around talking, either.”

Caleb Cobb merely smiled.

Captain Falconer briskly wrote them out some chits for horses— good with any trader in Austin, he claimed—and then marched them over to a man named Brognoli, who was in charge of stores and armaments. Brognoli was in the process of buying livestock when they found him. Twenty beeves had been driven in—they were ambling around the town square, which, at that time, was a maelstrom of activity. A wagon master was hammering together a new wagon, several saddle makers were making repairs on saddles the volunteers had brought in, and a dentist was pulling a man’s tooth right in the middle of it all. The man yowled, but the dentist persisted and brought out a tooth with a long red root.

“I’ll be damned if I’d let a man stick pliers in my mouth and pull out my teeth,” Gus said, as they walked through the crowd. Horses, mules, sheep, pigs, and chickens crowded the square. Call had never been in the midst of so much activity before—he felt a little hemmed in. There was so much to see that it was more than a little confusing. So engrossed was the quartermaster Brognoli in purchasing livestock that it was half an hour before he could attend to their request for guns. When he did get time for them, he proved to be a friendly man.

“Muskets are what we’ve got—I’ve not been issued pistols,” he said. “The muskets will do for buffalo, or Indians, either.”

He took them into a storeroom behind a large general store— cases of muskets were stacked on top of one another. While Call and the others were hefting various rifles and looking at ammunition pouches, Gus happened to peek into the store itself—there was a girl standing there by a counter who was so lovely that Gus immediately forgot all about cap-and-ball muskets, ammunition pouches, and everything else. The girl seemed to work in the store—she was helping an old lady try on a sunbonnet. The girl was slim; she had the liveliest expression—also, she was alert. Gus had merely glanced at her, supposing that she was too busy to notice, but she caught his glance and looked at him so directly that it unnerved him. He would have retreated back to the muskets had she not immediately smiled at him in a quick, friendly way.

Emboldened by that smile, Gus abandoned his comrades and walked into the store. It was a big, high-ceilinged store filled with every kind of goods, from hammers and nails to fine headwear—he couldn’t resist trying on a new grey hat with a sweeping brim, though he knew he couldn’t afford it. He could hear the old lady chattering on—she was in no hurry to choose her sunbonnet. Twice Gus decided the young woman was so busy with the old harpy that he could risk another glance or two, but both times he risked it, the girl caught the glance, as if it were a ball he had tossed her. She didn’t allow his glances to distract her from her work, but she didn’t fail to notice them, either.

Gus proceeded to examine a case full of knives; he had always had a strong fondness for knives. Some of the ones in the case would have excited him a lot on any other day—they had gleaming blades, with handles of ivory or horn; but compared to the pretty girl selling sunbonnets, knives were of little interest.

When the old lady finally chose her sunbonnet and paid for it, Gus was trying to work up his nerve to say good morning to the girl, but before he had it worked up there was another interruption: a brusque little man in a black frock coat bustled in, and went straight to the cigars.

“Morning, Miss Forsythe,” the fellow said. “I’m here for my cigar.”

“Here it is, Dr. Morris,” the girl said. “We’ve already got it wrapped up. My father tended to it personally.”

“Yes, but he attended to it too well,” the little doctor said, quickly tearing the wrapping off the little package the girl handed him. He extracted a long cigar and pulled it slowly under his nose.

“Never buy a cigar without smelling it,” he advised the girl—then he tipped his hat and walked out, the cigar jutting out of his mouth.

“I guess that was good advice,” the young woman said, strolling over to Gus. “But I won’t take it.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you?” Gus asked, amazed that the young woman had simply walked over and addressed him.

“Because I don’t fancy cigars,” the girl said, with a smile.

Then she thrust the wadded-up paper from the doctor’s package into his hand.“Here, dispose of this, sir,” she said, with a fetching smile. ;

“Do what?” Gus asked, paralyzed with anxiety lest he do something wrong and scare the girl away—though, he had to admit, she didn’t look easily scared.

“Dispose of this paper—I can see that you’re tall, but I don’t know if you’re useful,” the girl said. “I’m Clara. Who are you?”

“Augustus McCrae,” Gus said. Though he rarely used his full name, he felt that on this occasion it would be proper.

“Augustus—did you hear that? He’s a Roman like you, Mr. Brognoli,” Clara said, addressing the quartermaster, who had stepped into the store for the moment to give her chits for the muskets.

“I don’t think so, Miss Forsythe,” Brognoli said, tipping his cap to the girl. “I think he’s just a young rascal from Tennessee.

“You better get your musket—you’ll need it where you’re going,” he added, looking at Gus. “What’s that in your hand? You ain’t been stealing from Miss Forsythe, have you?”

“Oh no—it’s just some wrapping I asked him to dispose of,” Clara said. “I like to find out quick if a man’s useful or not. So far he ain’t disposed of it. I guess that means he’s a laggard.”

“Oh, this—I aim to keep it forever,” Gus said, flushed with embarrassment. Brognoli had already turned and disappeared—he was alone with Clara Forsythe, who was watching him out of two keen eyes.

“Keep it forever, that scrap!” Clara said. “Why would you do such a foolish thing as that, Mr. McCrae? You have important soldiering to do—I expect you’ll need both hands.”

“I’ll keep it because you gave it to me,” Gus said.

Clara stopped smiling and looked at him calmly. The speech didn’t seem to surprise her, though it greatly surprised Gus. He had not meant to say anything of the sort. But such a feeling had risen in him, because of Clara Forsythe, that he couldn’t move his limbs or control his speech.

“Here, don’t you want to pick a gun?” Call asked, sticking his head in the store for a moment. He saw Gus standing by a girl and supposed he was trying to buy something he couldn’t afford and didn’t need—whereas he did need a gun.

“You pick one for me—I expect it will do,” Gus said, determined not to leave Miss Forsythe’s presence until he absolutely had to.“We’re going to buy horses—don’t you want to pick your own mount?” Call asked, a little puzzled by his friend’s behaviour.

He looked again at the young shop girl and saw that she was unusually pretty—perhaps that explained it. Still, they were about to set off on a long, dangerous expedition—choosing the right gun and the right mount could mean life or death, once they were out on the prairies. If he was that taken with the shop girl, he could come back later and chatter—though, for once, Gus wasn’t chattering. He was just standing there, as if planted to the floor, holding some scraps of paper in his hand. It was unusual behaviour. Call stepped into the store, thinking his friend might be sick. He tipped his straw hat to the pretty shop girl as he approached.

“Hello, are you a Roman too, sir?” Clara asked, with a smile.

Call was stumped—he didn’t understand the question. The young woman’s look was so direct that it startled him. What did it mean, to be a Roman, and why had she asked?

“No, this is Woodrow Call, he’s a plain Texan,” Gus said. “I don’t know how that fellow knew I was from Tennessee.”

In fact, Brognoli’s comment had irked him—what right had a quartermaster to be speculating with Miss Forsythe about where he was from?

“Why, Mr. Brognoli’s a traveled man,” Clara said. “He’s been telling me about Europe. I mean to go there someday, and see the sights.

“If it’s farther off than Santa Fe I doubt I’ll have time to go,” Call said. He found that he didn’t feel awkward talking to the shop girl —she was so friendly that talking was easy, even though he had no idea where Europe was or what sights might be there for a young lady to see.

Call was impatient, though—they had to outfit themselves for a great expedition, and they only had a day to do it. He glanced around the big store and saw that it contained goods of every description, many of which would probably be useful on their expedition—but their chits only covered guns and horses. It was pointless to waste time looking around a big store, when they had no money to spend at all. Yet Gus seemed reluctant to move.

“I’ll be along, Woodrow—I’ll be along,” Gus said. “Just grab me a musket as you leave.”

“Why, I believe I’ve smitten Mr. McCrae,” Clara said, with a laugh. “I doubt I could smite you, though, Mr. Call—not unless I had a club.”

With no more said, she turned and began to unpack a large box of dry goods.

Call turned and left, a little puzzled by the shop girl’s remark. Why would she want to smite him with a club? She seemed a friendly girl, though the meaning of her remark was hard to puzzle out.

Clara whistled a tune as she unpacked the big box of dry goods. She glanced up after a bit and saw that Augustus McCrae, the young Tennessean, was still standing exactly where he had been when she last addressed him.

“Hey you, go along,” she said. “Your friend Mr. Call is waiting.”

“No, he ain’t waiting,” Gus said. “He left with the boys.”

“Are you really a Texas Ranger?” Clara asked. “I’ve not met too many Texas Rangers. My father says they’re rascals, mostly. Are you a rascal, Mr. McCrae?”

Gus hardly knew how to respond to such a barrage of questions.

“I may have done a rascally thing or two,” Gus said. Since Clara was so frank, he decided honesty might be the best policy. She was smiling when she looked at him, which was puzzling.

“Here, since you’re still around, put this cotton over on that bench,” she said. “It’s got mussed up, somewhere along the way. I expect we’ll have to wash it before we can sell it. Folks around here won’t pay money for cotton goods that look mussed.”

Gus took the swatch of cotton cloth and put it where she had told him to. An old man in a brown coat came in while he was doing it. The old man had on a grey hat and had a patch over one eye. He looked a little surprised to see a stranger carrying his dry goods around.