Kathleen Kent - The Outcasts

He legged himself down from his horse and walked to the fire.

“You George Deerling?” he asked. He addressed himself to the closer ranger, but the man shook his head and pointed to his older companion.

From a middling distance, the two rangers looked remarkably alike, even beyond the sameness of their dress. Hatless, they both wore top boots over home-sewn denim and shirts dyed an approximate indigo. The younger ranger was black-haired with a black mustache, the edges of which drooped into his coffee cup, requiring him to make a backhanded sweep after every sip. The one he had pointed to was an older man, silver-haired with a gray mustache, also of impressive width.

Their hair was cropped serviceably short, and every bit of exposed skin on the two rangers—wrists, necks, faces—and even the color of the eyes seemed sun-blasted to a dunnish brown. The man sitting between them was fully dressed in the same hard-ridden way but was bootless, owing to the bulk of the leg irons.

Nate shifted his good leg so he could stand more comfortably. His hip hurt something awful, but of a certainty he didn’t want to appear weak-limbed on his first field day.

He said, “I’m Nathaniel Cannon. Nate.” There was no nod of assent or motion of recognition. He added, “Sent by Captain Drake.” The last word lilted upwards and came out sounding, to his ears, like a question.

The older ranger said, “I’m George Deerling. My partner”—he motioned sideways with his head—“Tom Goddard. Dr. Tom.”

The man in the middle said, “And I’m the goddamn queen of the desert.” He yukked and grinned, showing all his teeth, top and bottom.

Deerling, in a sweeping motion, brought his gun out of its holster and applied the butt of it sharply to the prisoner’s head. Through the yowling and protestations of foul play, Deerling said, “This mannerless yahoo is Maynard Collie.”

Dr. Tom set his cup down and motioned for Nate to sit. “You here to help us bring old Maynard in?”

Even the voices of the two rangers were the same, Nate thought. The top notes slightly breathy and clipped, like air exhaled through short, fibrous reeds.

Dr. Tom smiled. “You already missed the fun. Maynard shot his own horse out from under himself trying to ride and fire at us at the same time.”

Nate sat and fingered the dirt as if testing it. “You know, you’re awfully close to Las Cruces. We don’t have power of arrest in New Mexico.” He kept his voice neutral but looked pointedly at Collie.

Dr. Tom looked across the top of the prisoner, who was still rubbing his head with both hands, with an amused turn of his lips. “George, did you know we was in New Mexico?”

Deerling drained the dregs of his cup. “Still looks like Texas to me.” He held the cup out to Nate. “You want coffee?”

Nate nodded, grateful for the offer, and the cup was half filled with the last of the coffee remaining in the small tin pot. He sat and watched the rangers begin to break camp and wondered how long he should sit drinking coffee before he broke the news to Deerling.

Collie looked at Nate and asked, “They ready to hang me?” He grinned again but sounded plaintive.

“Shut up, Maynard.” Dr. Tom cheerfully nudged him with a boot. “Make yourself useful and cover over the fire.”

Nate finished the coffee in the cup and, wiping it against his pants leg, stood. “Captain Deerling?”

Deerling, kneeling and packing his supply satchel, looked up.

“We’ve gotten word about McGill.” A pause. “He was in Houston a week ago.”

“And…?” Deerling stood, leaving his pack on the ground.

“And he’s gone. Left the town with Crenshaw and Purdy followin’ after.”

“What’s the butcher’s bill?” Dr. Tom asked.

“They took a mail stage and a dock warehouse. Didn’t get a whole lot but killed two people in the process. Both gut-shot.”

Maynard shook his head sadly.

“While all this was goin’ on, seems they were hiding in some settler’s house, just north of Houston.”

Dr. Tom asked, “Were any left alive?”

“One. The woman lived. But he killed the husband and two children.”

“Goddamn kid killers,” Maynard said. He scratched at the skin under the leg irons.

“She crawled more than a mile to a neighbor, bleedin’ the whole way. Said they were told all along they’d be left alive. And when it came time to leave, McGill just started shooting.”

Deerling asked, “Where’d they head?”

Nate shrugged. “The woman said they’d talked about riding to Harrisburg.”

“Harrisburg? What’s in Harrisburg?” Dr. Tom looked to Deerling.

“There’s the railroad to Richmond on the Brazos, for one. San Jacinto? Galveston, maybe?”

“And then on to New Orleans.” Dr. Tom whistled. “They get to New Orleans and we’ll never see ’em again.”

“If it were me, I’d go to Mexico.” Maynard settled on a hopeful look.

“If it was you, you’d know when to shut it.” Dr. Tom hunkered down and removed a key from his vest to unlock the leg irons.

“Tom.” Deerling held up a restraining hand. He turned again to Nate. “Did the woman say anything more?”

“She said they were after a stash of Confederate gold some dirt farmer uncovered in the Texas bayous. Or some such nonsense. She was mostly out of her head, I think.”

Deerling frowned. “What’s the disposition on Collie here, once we get him to Franklin?”

“We’re just waitin’ for the judge to show up,” Nate said. “We got the jury. It could be a week more. Ten days, maybe. Drake knew you’d want to follow after McGill. After you give testimony at the trial, he said. I’ve got my commission. I can ride with you as long as you need me.”

Deerling looked at Dr. Tom for a good while. He said, “We wait that long, we’ll lose ’em for sure.”

Dr. Tom considered for a moment. “We may have lost them already, George. What do we do with Maynard here?”

“You could let me go,” Maynard offered.

“He’s gonna be hanged regardless.” Deerling talked over Maynard’s head, as though he’d wandered off.

Dr. Tom pursed his lips. “You could bring a whole hornet’s nest of trouble on us if he comes in lookin’ like he was not a willing participant.”

“What in the hell…what’re you talkin’ about?” Maynard asked. “I’m sittin’ right here, goddamn it.”

Deerling looked at Maynard contemplatively. “We bring him in alive, and we’re committed to a turn of events outside our control.”

Dr. Tom nodded.

“I got a big bite, fifty-caliber, in my saddlebag,” Deerling said, looking towards his horse, a large bay cropping grass nearby.

“No, no, no, no…I’m not willin’,” Maynard shouted. “And if you bring me in with a rope-collar burn, or, or a hole in the back of my skull”—he pointed to Nate—“ he’s gonna know it and have to tell God and everyone what you done.”

Nate looked from Deerling to Dr. Tom, feeling as though he had dropped off into a deep sleep and had just awakened to find himself in the middle of the conversation.

“I get a trial, right?” Maynard looked around, then settled his eyes back on Nate. “Right?”

Dr. Tom said, “Maynard, you just had one.” He tapped Nate on the arm and, grabbing his hat, said, “Come on.”

Nate took a defensive posture. Pointing to Deerling, who was digging through his saddlebag, he said, “He’s not going to shoot the prisoner, is he?”

“No,” said Dr. Tom. “He’s not going to shoot him.” He looped his arm around Nate’s shoulder in a persistent but fatherly manner, prompting him to move away. “He’s just goin’ to talk to him a bit.”

After a few paces, Nate shrugged off the arm.