[Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta by Elmer Kelton Read Free Book Online Page A

rainfall, heat, and untimely cold as well as insects and various orders of blight. Every so often the farmer would lose his bet, and the best he could hope for was a better next year.
    Next year seemed a long way off, for this was still summer.
    Rusty returned to the cabin and fixed breakfast, though he could bring himself to eat but little.
    Tom Blessing rode up and hollered. His eyes were sympathetic as Rusty walked out to meet him. “Just ridin’ around checkin’ on my neighbors,” Tom said. “Looks like that hail knocked the whey out of you.”
    Rusty could only shrug. “What about your place?”
    “Not enough to break an egg, hardly. Looks like there was just one strip of heavy stuff, and it hit you the hardest of anybody. Missed Shanty’s place altogether.”
    Rusty was gratified to hear that. “I may have to move in with Shanty this winter. What about Fowler Gaskin?”
    Blessing shook his head. “I haven’t been over there yet, but it doesn’t look like the hail went that far.”
    Rusty felt regret. If Providence was even half-fair, Fowler’s place should have been beaten into nothing but a puddle of mud.
    Blessing said, “Preacher Webb always claimed everything happens for a reason. Said no matter how cold and cloudy the day, the sun is still shinin’ someplace. Maybe you can replant.”
    “Garden stuff, maybe, but it’s too late for corn. I won’t be puttin’ away any fresh money for a while.”
    Blessing faced the cabin. “Looks like your roofs got beat real bad. Want me to have a load of shingles sent out from town?”
    “Can’t afford to buy what I can make for myself. I’ve got plenty of timber down on the river. Tell you what you can do, though: see if you can find me a job.”
    “I’ll try, but I’m afraid there’s not much to choose from around here. Times are slow.”
    Rusty had not inventoried his toolshed in a while. He found his saw was missing. So were the froe and mallet he used to split shingles the time he had helped rebuild Shanty’s burned cabin. He was certain he had brought them home after that job was done.
    He knew where he was most likely to find them, at Fowler Gaskin’s. That scoundrel had a habit of borrowing without asking. Stealing, most people would call it, for he brought nothing back except under duress. Rusty had never liked going to Gaskin’s place, but he had already decided to raise Cain with the old heathen over his abuse of Shanty. He hitched his team to the wagon. The tools would be unhandy to carry home on horseback. He had no way of knowing what-all of his property he might find, things he had not yet missed.
    For years Gaskin’s cabin had leaned to one side, away from the prevailing winds. Logs had been propped at an angle against it to keep it from falling over. Trash and debris littered the premises around it. Gaskin sat on a bench in the shade at the front of the cabin, a jug within easy reach on the ground. He was rail-thin, his skin sallow. His ragged beard was mostly gray, laced with rusty streaks left by tobacco juice dribbling down his chin. He squinted bleary eyes in an effort to bring Rusty into focus.
    “What the hell you doin’ here?” he demanded. “I ran you off of this place, didn’t I?”
    Rusty climbed down from the wagon. “You’ve never run me anyplace that I didn’t want to go. I believe you’ve got some tools that belong to me.”
    “No such of a thing. Ain’t nothin’ of yours here.” Gaskin arose on wobbly legs, then dropped back onto the bench. “You’ve got no cause to come accusin’ me. I’ll sic my dogs on you.”
    Gaskin’s two dogs had barked once, then had slunk away at the wagon’s approach. They had much in common with their master.
    Rusty did not wait to hear any more of Gaskin’s protests. He walked out to a half-collapsed shed and began to dig through tools and implements piled there in a heap. He found his froe and mallet. They bore the initials RS, which he had burned onto the wooden handles