![[Texas Rangers 05] - Texas Vendetta](https://fs.ageofbook.com/621731/thumbs/152x264/texas-rangers-05-texas-vendetta.jpg)
your Comanche raisin’. You hate Apaches without knowin’ why. Comanche or Apache, they’re all Indians. It’s a family feud just like with the Landons and the Hoppers. And it doesn’t make a lick of sense.”
That stung, although Andy could not quite reconcile himself to Rusty’s viewpoint. Every Comanche knew that Apaches were like rattlesnakes, to be killed wherever they were found. Children were taught that lesson as soon as they were able to learn. “It’s the People’s way,” he said.
“Killin’ one another is the Hoppers’ and the Landons’ way. The Lord never made any perfect humans, Indian or white.”
West of Austin the rugged topography always lifted Andy’s spirit. It seemed to lift Rusty’s too, for his eyes brightened as he surveyed the rough terrain, the live-oak flats, the limestone layers that were like broken stair steps up the sides of the hills. He said, “I never spent much time out in this part of the country. I wish I had. It’s pretty.”
“Pretty wild.”
“If I was just startin’ out and didn’t already have my farm, I think I’d find me a place out here. I’d set my roots deep and never leave it the rest of my life.”
Andy was gratified to see Rusty beginning to come out of the darkness. “I’ve studied on it some myself.”
He remembered older Comanches’ accounts of long hunting trips down into this land rich in water and grass and game. By the time he was with them they never ventured this far south anymore except to raid. The Texans had made it too dangerous for them to stay. In Andy’s view the hill country had not yet been spoiled by civilization. Most of it was too rough to be violated by the plow except for narrow valleys where soil had washed down from the steep hillsides to accumulate deep and rich. In springtime it was like a boundless garden exploding in color with bluebonnets and other wildflowers. Now in summer the season of blooming was gone and the maturing grass was more brown than green. Spring was short, but the memory was long.
It was a perfect haven for grazers and browsers, wild and domestic. Now and then Andy glimpsed white-tailed deer. Alert to danger, they bounded into the cedar thickets and live-oak mottes long before the horsemen reached them. A hunter needed stealth and steady nerves to stalk them with a rifle. How much harder it would be, he thought, to stalk them with a bow and arrow as the Indians traditionally did.
He saw wild turkeys too. He brought one down with a well-aimed shot to the head.
“What did you do that for?” Rusty asked. “It’s hard to strip off the feathers without boilin’ water to scald the bird.”
“I’ll skin him like a squirrel. He’ll make a nice supper.” Andy was proud of his shot. Bringing down a turkey with a rifle was a test of marksmanship. Rusty had taught him so well in the use of the rifle that Andy was now the better shot. In fact, when he gave it any thought he realized that Rusty had taught him most of what he knew about living in the white man’s world.
Having finished all he wanted of the turkey, he sat on the ground a little way from the dwindling campfire. The night was warm enough that he did not need the heat. He said, “You’re studyin’ me awful hard.”
Rusty said, “I was wonderin’ with your Indian raisin’ why you ever decided to be a Ranger. Rangers and Comanches have fought one another ever since Stephen F. Austin’s time.”
“It’s more like the life I had with the Comanches than the life I had on your farm.”
“But it’s not a job you’d want to spend the rest of your years at. Even if you could depend on it, which you can’t. The state is always runnin’ out of money. You never know from one month to the next if you’ll get paid.”
“Money’s not the main thing.”
“It’s easy to say money’s not important when you’ve got a little in your pocket. It looks different when you don’t have any. First time the state’s money gets
That stung, although Andy could not quite reconcile himself to Rusty’s viewpoint. Every Comanche knew that Apaches were like rattlesnakes, to be killed wherever they were found. Children were taught that lesson as soon as they were able to learn. “It’s the People’s way,” he said.
“Killin’ one another is the Hoppers’ and the Landons’ way. The Lord never made any perfect humans, Indian or white.”
West of Austin the rugged topography always lifted Andy’s spirit. It seemed to lift Rusty’s too, for his eyes brightened as he surveyed the rough terrain, the live-oak flats, the limestone layers that were like broken stair steps up the sides of the hills. He said, “I never spent much time out in this part of the country. I wish I had. It’s pretty.”
“Pretty wild.”
“If I was just startin’ out and didn’t already have my farm, I think I’d find me a place out here. I’d set my roots deep and never leave it the rest of my life.”
Andy was gratified to see Rusty beginning to come out of the darkness. “I’ve studied on it some myself.”
He remembered older Comanches’ accounts of long hunting trips down into this land rich in water and grass and game. By the time he was with them they never ventured this far south anymore except to raid. The Texans had made it too dangerous for them to stay. In Andy’s view the hill country had not yet been spoiled by civilization. Most of it was too rough to be violated by the plow except for narrow valleys where soil had washed down from the steep hillsides to accumulate deep and rich. In springtime it was like a boundless garden exploding in color with bluebonnets and other wildflowers. Now in summer the season of blooming was gone and the maturing grass was more brown than green. Spring was short, but the memory was long.
It was a perfect haven for grazers and browsers, wild and domestic. Now and then Andy glimpsed white-tailed deer. Alert to danger, they bounded into the cedar thickets and live-oak mottes long before the horsemen reached them. A hunter needed stealth and steady nerves to stalk them with a rifle. How much harder it would be, he thought, to stalk them with a bow and arrow as the Indians traditionally did.
He saw wild turkeys too. He brought one down with a well-aimed shot to the head.
“What did you do that for?” Rusty asked. “It’s hard to strip off the feathers without boilin’ water to scald the bird.”
“I’ll skin him like a squirrel. He’ll make a nice supper.” Andy was proud of his shot. Bringing down a turkey with a rifle was a test of marksmanship. Rusty had taught him so well in the use of the rifle that Andy was now the better shot. In fact, when he gave it any thought he realized that Rusty had taught him most of what he knew about living in the white man’s world.
Having finished all he wanted of the turkey, he sat on the ground a little way from the dwindling campfire. The night was warm enough that he did not need the heat. He said, “You’re studyin’ me awful hard.”
Rusty said, “I was wonderin’ with your Indian raisin’ why you ever decided to be a Ranger. Rangers and Comanches have fought one another ever since Stephen F. Austin’s time.”
“It’s more like the life I had with the Comanches than the life I had on your farm.”
“But it’s not a job you’d want to spend the rest of your years at. Even if you could depend on it, which you can’t. The state is always runnin’ out of money. You never know from one month to the next if you’ll get paid.”
“Money’s not the main thing.”
“It’s easy to say money’s not important when you’ve got a little in your pocket. It looks different when you don’t have any. First time the state’s money gets
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