Texas Drive by Bill Dugan Page A

enemy, plain and simple. They’d as soon as not scalp every last one of us.”
    “But like you said, Theodore, one can hardly blame them. They haven’t been fairly dealt with. You know that as well as I do. None of the tribes has been.”
    “Tell that to Tommy Dawson. I nearly got him killed, trying to understand the Comanche. Would have, too, if Johnny hadn’t been there.”
    “But Johnny’s not here now. Now you have to think for yourself. All I’m suggesting is maybe a little understanding will go a lot further than another Indian war.”
    “Or another massacre?”
    “I don’t deny there’s been violence on both sides, inexcusable violence. But nobody has tried anything
but
violence. Don’t you see that?”
    “Why are you telling me all this, Jacob? What’s the point?”
    “The point is, you’re not like the others. Maybe you can make a difference.”
    “No, I can’t. It’s out of our hands. It’s up to whoever’s in charge upstairs, and I’m not so sure he’s paying any attention.”
    “Never doubt it, son. If God had wanted man to take vengeance, He’d never have given him two cheeks.”
    “That’s really a pretty sentiment, Jacob. I wish I could believe it, but I can’t. You and Ellie, you’re different from most of us. Maybe you’re even right. My problem is, I just don’t know. I’ve seen enough killing, that’s for certain. But nothing else seems to work out here. There are too many people willing to kill you as it is. If they know they run no risk from you, it’ll be even worse. I want to be like you, but I don’t know how. At Shiloh …” He stopped abruptly and rubbed the corner of his mouth.
    “Have you ever really tried anything else? Has Johnny?”
    Ted shook his head. “Have you, Jacob? Have you ever thought what it might be like to find the Indian who killed your Sarah? Have you ever wonderedwhat it would be like to look him in the eye and watch him understand the meaning of justice as your finger tightened on the trigger?”
    “No, I haven’t. You know that.”
    Ted sighed. “Yes, Jacob, I do know that. And I know you don’t consider that justice. That’s why I find it so hard to understand you. I want to be like you, but I don’t know if I can.”
    “All you have to do is try, son.”
    “That takes more courage than I’ve got, I guess.”

8
    AT SUNUP, JOHNNY had already been awake for an hour. He sat by himself on the hillside, watching the gray bulk of the herd slowly dissolve into individual lumps of color. As the red disc slipped one edge over the horizon, flooding the valley with red light, he could pick out the shapes of the night riders, half asleep in the saddle, watching the ends of the herd.
    He glanced over his shoulder at the three farmers, who lay sleeping in their blankets. He envied them. They had something to protect, they knew what it was, and they’d be damned if they wouldn’t do whatever they had to. He felt the same once, but now he wasn’t so sure. The drive had already cost him a brother. And there was no end in sight. This latest wrinkle was just the least expected. He hoped it would be the last.
    He watched Cookie light the fire and fill a big, ash-blackened coffee pot from one of the barrels on the mess wagon, then scoop coffee into the basket. After the coffee was on, Cookie looked up at the sun, then turned to scan the hillside. When he saw Johnny, he waved a hand, then turned back to breakfast.
    Up on the hillside, Johnny heard the horses first. He yanked a pocket watch from his jeans. It was only six o’clock, too early for O’Hara and the sheriff. He started up the hill when a dozen riders broke over the ridge, reining in just past the crest. Whoever they were, they weren’t the law. That much was clear.
    Johnny sensed something he couldn’t put his finger on. All twelve wore the tattered remnants of Yankee uniforms, mixed with CSA gray and whatever else had come to hand. There wasn’t a clean-shaven face in the crowd of