The slope was steep. Owen was glad when he broke out of the brush at the summit into a clearing.
Luke and Lorette had already sprung down and drawn, and Lorette was scouring the ground. Apparently she could track, too.
“There were a heap of them,” she said, turning in small circles. “They have Sam’s horse. See there? The shod one?”
Gareth gigged his animal over to her. “A dozen, at least. They left their horses here and snuck down on foot.” He bent low and rubbed his chin. “When they came back they were carrying someone. I saw the tracks on my way up.”
“Sam,” Owen said, his heart sinking.
“They can’t have gotten far, Burnett,” Gareth said. “This happened maybe two hours ago.”
“What are we waiting for?” Luke said, moving to his mount. “Let’s light a shuck.”
Owen couldn’t give chase fast enough. Every minute of delay increased the likelihood of finding Sam dead.
Gareth reined around. “Stay behind me and ride in single file. We’ll raise less dust that way.”
“Hold on, Pa,” Harland said, and glanced at Thaxter, who nodded.
“What is it, boy?” Gareth asked impatiently.
“Why should we risk our skins for Sam Burnett? He’s not any kin of ours. Let the Burnetts go on by themselves.”
“Harland!” Lorette said.
“Don’t give me that look, sis,” Harland said. “You want to help them, fine. We all know why.”
“Damn you boy,” Gareth said.
“We don’t want any part of it,” Harland said. “Thaxter and Wylie and me.”
“I’ll do whatever Pa says,” Wylie said.
Owen was practically beside himself. “My son’s life is in danger and you do this?”
Gareth motioned at Owen. “Go on ahead with your oldest and Lorette and Wylie. We’ll catch up as soon as I have a little talk with my oldest.”
“Don’t take too long,” Owen said. “We’ll need your help.” There weren’t enough of them, otherwise, to effect a rescue.
“I won’t be but a couple of minutes behind you,” Gareth assured him.
“Maybe longer, Pa,” Harland said.
“Lots longer,” Thaxter said.
Luke and Lorette were making for the other side of the clearing.
Owen trailed after them, with Wylie behind him. He looked back as the woods closed around them.
Gareth and Harland and Thaxter had climbed down, and Gareth was walking toward them with his fists balled.
Owen wouldn’t want to be in their boots, as mad as Gareth looked.
Harland, strangely enough, was grinning an odd sort of grin.
Chapter 59
If anyone were to ask, Jasper Weaver would tell them that the most awful feeling in the world was to be on a horse with the body of your only son thrown over the saddle in front of you. He had one hand on the body to keep it from sliding off.
Jasper wasn’t aware of much else. Tears blurred his vision. His nose was clogged. And all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart, beating a dirge in his ears. His chest hurt, and he wondered if his heart might be about to give out.
Jasper didn’t care if he keeled over. He’d lost the person he loved most in the world. Sure, he cared for Wilda. She was his wife. She was also a nag and more than a bit of a bitch. But he didn’t care for her as he’d cared for Reuben.
From the moment his son was born, Jasper had done the best he could to be a good father. He never beat the boy, like Gareth Kurst beat his, or treated his son as if he was of little account, as Gareth often did. He didn’t demand that his son treat his every word as if it was the word of God Almighty, as Gareth was known to do.
No, Jasper had treated Reuben with respect. Reuben had been his pride and his joy of joys.
And now Reuben was dead.
The tears wouldn’t stop.
Jasper blinked and sniffled and took his hand off the body to grope behind him at his saddlebag. He got it open, slid his hand inside, and found his flask. Eagerly opening it, he took a gulp and shivered with pleasure as the whiskey warmed his throat and then his belly. It helped to relieve the hurt.
“Oh, Reuben,” Jasper said softly. “My sweet son.”
Jasper swiped at his eyes with his sleeve. He swiped at his nose, too. He tipped his flask again, and once more, and wished he could stop and climb down and crawl into a ball and cry himself dry.
“God, I am in misery,” Jasper said to the air. “How could you do this to me? He was everything.”
Jasper hardly noticed the longhorns on one side and the wooded hills on the other. He did glance over once and thought he saw a figure way back in the trees. But when he looked again, it wasn’t there. A trick of his tears, he reckoned, and quietly sobbed.
The camp came into sight, smoke rising from a fire. The damned camp, Jasper thought. His son was dead because of this cattle business. Because his wife had made him take part. Because she wanted them to be rich, or as close to rich as they’d ever come.
“May she rot in hell,” Jasper said, and sucked on his flask. It was her fault, not his. She had cost them the one truly good thing that had come out of their marriage. Gentle, kind Reuben.
Figures were coming toward him.
Jasper wiped away more tears and saw it was Silsby and Iden. He’d forgotten their pa left them to watch the herd. “Boys,” he said hoarsely by way of greeting, and drew rein.
“Mr. Weaver,” Iden said, but he wasn’t looking at Jasper.
“Is that Reuben?” Silsby said.
“What happened?” Iden asked.
“Is he dead?” Silsby said.
“Do you see him moving?” Jasper said harshly, not intending to sound mean. “Do you see the blood?”
“What happened?” Iden asked again.
“Injuns.” Carefully climbing down, Jasper wrapped his arms around the body and began to lower it. Both boys leaped to help, and he felt bad for snapping at them. Together, they carried Reuben over near the fire and laid him on his back.
Jasper folded both arms across Reuben’s chest and squatted there, gazing down on the face of his precious, dead boy.
“Was it the Comanches?” Iden said.
“Who else?” Silsby said.
Jasper tried to speak but his throat wouldn’t work. Instead, he coughed and nodded and more tears trickled.
“I’m awful sorry, Mr. Weaver,” Iden said. “I liked Reuben. A lot. Him and me got along fine.”
“He was always so friendly,” Silsby said.
“I know,” Jasper was able to say. Of all the Kursts, these two had been the only ones to treat Reuben halfway nice. The older ones treated him as if he were brainless. Jasper would never forgive them for that, not as long as he lived.
Iden hunkered next to him. “They killed him with an arrow.”
Jasper nodded.
“What about Sam? Were they together?”
Jasper nodded a second time.
“Did they kill Sam, too?”
“Took him,” Jasper said with an effort.
“The Comanches got hold of Sam?” Iden said.
“He’s a goner then,” Silsby said.
“Where’s Pa and everyone else?” Iden asked.
“Went after Sam,” Jasper said. He realized he was still holding his flask and raised it to his lips. It was empty.
“Pa and them went after Sam?” Iden said.
“He just told us they did,” Silsby said. “Quit saying everything he does.”
“It’s just . . .” Iden touched Reuben’s shoulder. “He made me smile. And never spoke ill of anybody.”
“Thank you,” Jasper said.
“For what?”
“For that,” Jasper said.
“We should bury him,” Silsby said.<
br />
“I’m taking him home to bury,” Jasper said. So he could visit the grave every day.
“At least cover him with a blanket,” Silsby said. “We have more important things to worry about.”
“There was nothing on this earth more important to me than my son,” Jasper said.
“How about breathing?” Silsby said.
“What are you on about?” Iden said.
“The Comanches, little brother.” Silsby hefted his rifle. “They might still be hereabouts looking to kill more whites.”
Iden stood and anxiously gazed about. “I didn’t think of that. You could be right. And us out in the open like this.”
“The Comanches are long gone,” Jasper said. “Their tracks led off to the north.”
“They can circle around, can’t they?” Silsby said. “Or there could be more spread over the countryside. You don’t know.”
Jasper didn’t like his tone. “I know I’m not sticking around. In fact, I’m leaving right this minute. I’m taking my son and going home, and I don’t care if I see another longhorn, or any of you, for as long as I live.”
“Why, you miserable drunk,” Silsby said. “Is that any way to treat us?”
“Sil, don’t,” Iden said.
“You heard him.”
“He’s just lost his son,” Iden said.
“Who cares?” Silsby said, and smirked at Jasper. He was still smirking when an arrow sheared into his left cheek, tore clear through his face, and burst out his right cheek in a shower of blood and bits of teeth. Silsby staggered, and a scarlet river poured from his mouth.
“Sil!” Iden cried, and there were two swift thunks, one after the other. He staggered, too, and gaped at a pair of arrows that had transfixed him from front to back. Turning on a boot heel, he said, “No!” and collapsed.
Jasper saw it all as if in a haze. He saw Silsby swing toward the hill and raise his rifle, saw a lance catch him in the neck and jut out the other side. Silsby clutched at it, and crashed down.
Belatedly, Jasper grabbed for his six-gun but he couldn’t draw. He was still holding his empty flask. He threw the flask down and got his fingers around his revolver just as shadows fell across him. He looked up.
Painted faces surrounded him, the sun glinting off of their knives and tomahawks.
“Lord, no,” Jasper said, and tried to throw himself back.
A rain of weapons fell. He was stabbed, cut, clubbed. So much pain, yet he barely felt it. All he could think of was Reuben. He fell to his hands and knees but the rain didn’t stop. He was being chopped and hacked to pieces. Through a haze he saw his son lying just past a pair of moccasins, and thrust his hand between them. He got hold of Reuben’s arm, Reuben’s hand. Clasping it, he closed his eyes. He didn’t mind dying. He would be with Reuben again.
I’m coming, son.
Chapter 60
Gareth Kurst was mad. It always made him mad when his sons refused to listen. When he told them to do something, he expected them to do it. No sass. No fuss. He’d ingrained that into them at an early age with a belt and the back of his hand.
Now, Gareth stared at his two oldest and simmered. “I can’t believe my ears.”
“Believe them,” Harland said.
Gareth came close to punching him in the face; but they would need his help saving the Burnett boy. “I told you we’re going to go after Sam Burnett, and we are.”
“We don’t want to, Pa,” Harland replied, “and we’re old enough that we should be able to make up our own minds.”
Gareth looked at Thaxter, who nodded. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you two, talking to me like this. We do as I say. What you want doesn’t enter into it.”
“It does now,” Harland said.
“What are you up to?” Gareth demanded.
“Something that is long overdue,” Harland said. “We should have done this years ago.”
“Is that so?” Gareth was going to thrash his oldest to within an inch of his life. But first he would hear him out. There was something going on here he didn’t quite savvy.
“We’ve put up with you beating on us for far too long. We’re grown-up now, Pa. We’re not little boys. We’re none of us ten anymore. It’s about time you treated us how we deserve to be treated.”
“And how is that?”
“As men,” Harland said. “As equal with you.”
“So that’s what this is.”
“Harland speaks for both of us,” Thaxter threw in.
“I know you’re full grown,” Gareth said.
“You don’t treat us as if we are,” Harland replied. “You don’t let us make up our minds about anything.”
“You make all our decisions for us,” Thaxter complained.
Gareth was mildly amused at them being so foolish. “That’s not true. You pick the clothes you wear. You go into town and drink on your own.”
“Only when you say we can,” Harland said. “Everything is you, you, you, Pa. You’ve lorded it over us, and over Ma, since I can remember. And you’ll never change.”
“Not ever,” Thaxter said.
Gareth’s amusement faded. They had never come at him together like this, and it troubled him. The last time any of them stood up to him was a couple of years ago when Harland balked at being told he wasn’t to bring any liquor home from town. Gareth had found a bottle in Harland’s saddlebags and didn’t want the stuff around his younger boys.
Harland astounded him by saying he would bring whiskey home if he pleased, and there was nothing Gareth could do about it. Gareth proved him wrong by beating him senseless with his bare fists. No one had dared mouth off to him since.
“Where do your brothers and sister stand in this?” Gareth wanted to know.
“Sis didn’t want any part of it,” Harland said.
“She always had more brains than you,” Gareth said.
“Wylie and Silsby and Iden agree with us, but they’re letting us do the talking,” Harland said.
“Silsby and Iden are afraid of you,” Thaxter said.
“They have brains, too,” Gareth said.
“Now you see?” Harland said. “Talk like that doesn’t help. You treat us with no more respect than you do the Comanches.”
“That’s not true,” Gareth said. “I have respect for them.”
Thaxter swore and scowled. “There you go again. Treating us like we’re lumps of coal.”
“What did you expect?” Harland said.
“Do you know what I think, Harland?” Gareth said, his simmer starting to rise to a boil. “I think this is all your doing. You’ve always been the troublemaker in our family. The one who wouldn’t listen. The one I had to punish the most.”
“You beat me and slapped me and kicked me more times than I can count,” Harland said.
“Whose fault was that? Who wouldn’t do his chores unless I made him? Who wouldn’t clean up after himself? Who would rather lie around all day doing nothing?”
“A man has that right if he wants,” Harland growled.
“You weren’t a man then and you’re not a man now,” Gareth told him. “And sure, I hit you when you deserved it. But I never broke your bones. You don’t have any scars from it.” He sneered in disgust. “Hell, a little cuff now and then was good for you. It taught you to mind your elders.”
Harland looked at Thaxter. “See?”
“We knew how he’d take it,” Thaxter said.
Squaring his shoulders, Harland stepped up to Gareth. “From this day on, Pa, we go our own way. We do as we please and not as you want. We make our own decisions. Agree to that and we’ll get along fine.”
“Is that so?”
Harland nodded. “Our first decision is that we don’t need anyone to help us get the cattle to market. We’ve told you before, but you wouldn�
�t listen.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Thaxter echoed.
“If they survive the Comanches, we’re going to be shed of the Burnetts and Jasper Weaver.”
“You blamed jackass.”
“Talk like that doesn’t help you any.”
“You’re the one who will need help.” Gareth tensed to strike. “The pair of you, for bucking me like this.”
Harland paid no heed to the threat. “We don’t give a good damn about them.”
“How about your sister? Do you give a damn about her? She’s with them, and she’ll need our help.”
“That’s on her head,” Harland said. “She’s the one panting after Sam Burnett. Let her save him.”
“That’s right,” Thaxter said.
“We’re going after them whether you like it or not.”
“We’re staying put, Pa.”
“Over my dead body,” Gareth said. He had talked enough. It was time to commence pounding.
“If that’s how it has to be,” Harland said, and his left hand swept out and around.
Gareth caught the gleam of steel. He started to bring his fists up, and felt a searing sensation in his vitals. He looked down at a knife buried to the hilt. “You . . .” he blurted.
“I did,” Harland said.
Gareth’s legs were like water. Clutching himself, he pitched to his knees.
Harland and Thaxter were staring at him as calmly as if they were butchering a hog.
“Boys . . .” Gareth said. He was stunned into bewilderment. His own sons had done this to him. His own sons.
“We run the family now, Pa,” Harland said. “You’re not the king of the roost anymore.”
“Long live the king,” Thaxter said.
Gareth felt himself slipping away. He reached out for them as if from the end of a long, dark tunnel.
The last thing he heard was Harland’s laughter.
Chapter 61
Lorette Kurst was beside herself with worry. Sam—in the clutches of the Comanches. It was hard to concentrate on the tracks she was following, she was so worried.
Owen and Luke Burnett were behind her, Wylie behind them. She had the impression he wasn’t pushing his horse quite as hard as he could. It made her furious that he didn’t seem to care if they saved Sam, but now wasn’t the time to take him to task.
Ralph Compton Texas Hills Page 23
