Author's Notes: This story takes place during "Trust No One" (February 1995) when Trivette was reassigned to desk work pending completion of an investigation regarding his involvement in the disappearance of five million dollars from thirty million in counterfeit bills.
Most geographical places mentioned are real but I've played with them a bit in terms of population for the sake of the story. My apologies to any citizens of Dalhart, Texas and Clayton, New Mexico who may be reading.
The town of Broken Springs, New Mexico does not exist (at least, not in the area of northeastern New Mexico in which Ranger Walker is traveling).
"The prisoner" (I have reasons for not giving him a name just yet) is my personal creation. All other characters belong to the creators of Walker, Texas Ranger and I am just borrowing them for my personal entertainment. This is my first fan-fic and I've never managed to view the entire series so I hope I can be forgiven any inconsistencies. It got away from me, actually. I thought it would be a one-shot short story but it's taken on a life of its own.
What Price Humanity?
Chapter 1 – Poisoned Waters
Definitely not at my best today, Walker thought as he guided the Dodge Ram pick-up truck down yet another mile of deserted county road. B Company hadn't gotten around to assigning him another partner (and he honestly hoped they never did since he still believed Jimmy could be cleared if enough time for investigation were allowed) and so he'd had to go on this bust alone. It had been a cooperative effort involving agencies from three states --- Texas, Oklahoma, and New Mexico --- in an effort to shut down a major drug smuggling operation.
Walker sensed when it began sleeting that the bust would be a rough one and he'd been right. The weather in Dallas generally remained mild this time of year and he hadn't thought about a heavier jacket. They'd been hunkered down in their positions just outside an old farmstead for almost two hours when the temperature dropped enough to turn the sleet into proper snow. He'd pulled the collar of the fleece jacket up around his neck and adjusted his hat so that most of the accumulation would slide off the brim and not down his back.
He'd still gotten soaked and then had to pursue smugglers for an additional hour through muddy adobe flats with the wind cutting through his wet clothes. If Trivette had been there for back-up, Walker might have gotten them both but he'd only managed to take down the larger and slower of the two. The other had gotten away. The head of the sting operation hadn't wanted to risk transportation of the prisoner without a partner riding shotgun, but Walker had finally argued him out of it. The prisoner, a large man of mixed ancestry, had refused to answer any questions and would either growl or make odd threatening gestures with his hands when addressed. He was secured in the bed of Walker's truck, shackled to the roll bars.
The snowfall increased and Walker turned the wind shield wipers up to their highest setting. He supposed, given the circumstances, he ought to stop and bring the prisoner inside the cab. The man might be a brute and a lawbreaker both but Walker wasn't going to let him freeze to death. He tried recalling the name of the next major city and remembered that the map showed only plains and nearly abandoned former mining towns. They hadn't even crossed back into Texas yet. However, there was a rest stop and picnic shelter before the state line. He'd bring the prisoner inside there.
The Ranger brought up his gloved fist (at least he'd remembered those) and rapped on the truck's rear window to get the man's attention before sliding it open so he could speak to him. The big man peered at him from beneath a horse blanket he had apparently found in the pick-up bed. "We'll be stopping at a place called Sierra Grande shortly. It's not much, just a rest stop, but if you're good, I'll bring you in out of the cold then." Walker flashed a charming, lopsided smile but a steely glint in his wise brown eyes told anyone who cared to know he meant business. "And if you're bad, I'll truss you up like a yearling calf, toss you in back, and haul you all the way to Dallas like that. Got it?"
His prisoner shrugged the blanket back up over his head and turned his back. The handcuffs rattled as he made the same hand gestures he had since he'd been arrested. Walker wished he knew whether the gestures were meant to be threatening or something more. At times, he thought some of them resembled American Sign Language but he had attained some proficiency in it and the signs the prisoner made --- if that's what they were at all --- bore little resemblance to even standard finger signs. Well, that was for Alex to figure out. It had been one of the reasons he'd argued the coordinator into allowing him to transport this particular prisoner. Alex had access to all sorts of people with unusual backgrounds, any one of whom might be able to translate if the hand signs were, in fact, a language. Walker fiddled with the radio until he dialed in an AM country station coming in out of Oklahoma and turned it up. Maybe a few songs would lift the weariness he felt or at least make the drive seem less long.
The sign indicating the turn-off to Sierra Grande had faded and, like most of the markers on these county roads and old US highways, had been used for target practice. It leaned crazily to one side and wobbled in the wind but blown snow had not yet obscured the lettering. Had he not consulted the map, he would have missed the turn entirely. Walker pulled up to the shelter, sighing in relief.
The sound of the wind, which could not be completely drowned out by the songs on the radio, had given him a headache. He leaned forward, draped his arms across the steering wheel, pillowed his head on them, and closed his eyes. His eyes felt like someone had thrown sand into them and he knew he'd been driving too long. Sighing, he sat up, dug the map out of the glove compartment, and took another look at the route to Dallas.
"Damn!" Nothing had changed. The nearest town was Clayton, still in New Mexico, and judging by the map it would be too small to offer anything more than basic amenities. He wouldn't find a secure jail and a decent hotel until US 87 dumped onto I-40 at Vega and then headed east into Amarillo, a distance of almost one hundred and fifty miles. It simply couldn't be helped and, Walker rationalized, he'd been on stake-outs before which were no less long or tiring. This rest stop, at least, had facilities and running water. He'd splash some water on his face, have a long drink to ease the dryness in his throat, and press on.
It took more effort than it should have to open the driver's side door and step out into the storm. Walker's boots crunched and squeaked across the snow as he made his way to the truck bed. The prisoner, hunched over under the blanket as far as the handcuffs would allow, straightened and cocked his head toward the sound. So he can at least hear, Walker noted, though he hasn't said a single word. That, in all probability, eliminated the chance that those hand gestures were language. He'd have to keep a careful eye on this one…maybe.
When Walker fished the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the chain binding the prisoner to the roll bar, the man renewed the frantic gestures. If the hand movements were meant as threatening, Walker reflected, they didn't match any martial arts forms with which he was familiar. In most forms, your opponent would be struggling to get those hands in a defensive posture; this man's hands remained in his lap. The Ranger yanked on the chain, not hard but enough to get the man's attention and still his struggling.
"That'll be enough of that. Understand me?" He was surprised when the prisoner obeyed and nodded affirmation. The man didn't look nearly as brutish when he wasn't gesturing and growling. "Now, I'm gonna let you down from here so that you can stretch your legs. If you try to escape or make one wrong move, I'll shoot you. Nod if you understand." To his surprise, the prisoner nodded again.
Walker grasped his arm and helped him down over the tailgate of the truck. The prisoner's dark eyes seemed to shine with gratitude for this basic human consideration. A smile transformed his face until he more resembled a baby than a criminal. What the…perhaps the man was simple? Walker had known one or two children like that growing up on the reservation. If so, what use was the man to a major drug smuggling operation? "I just can't figure you out," he said, shaking his head and regretted the movement almost instantly. He really was too tired to be thinking about this and wished for Trivette's clever mind to help him out. Trivette could find almost anything given a computer and enough time.
"I need a drink of water," Walker explained, accompanying his words with rough miming. "I'll be right back. You'll stay here?" Another nod. Walker opened the driver's side door and reached in to recheck the map. It still showed the same distance to Amarillo with towns few and far between. He had enough fuel to make it as far as Dalhart, Texas but it might be a while before they passed through a town with an open grocery or convenience store. Pulling a canteen from behind the front seat, Walker strode up to the spigot.
A guttural roar and the clattering of chains startled him as he bent his head to take a drink. If he hadn't already been tired, cold, and wet he probably could have avoided the prisoner's attack entirely. As it was the man had knocked the ranger away from the spigot and sent him sprawling into the snow covered prairie grass. He rolled up into a defensive position, fists clenched, and aimed a sweep kick in the last known direction of his attacker. The man hadn't moved, which briefly struck Walker as odd, and he took the guy down cleanly. He stood up, took a few deep breaths to clear his head.
"What'd you go and do that for? I told you not to," Walker said conversationally as he looked at the prone prisoner. He pulled the man to his feet and this time he cuffed him from behind and then fed the chains through that. The brute couldn't get away now if he tried. He looked at the leaden sky with snow still falling steadily. Nope, he couldn't toss the prisoner in the back as he'd threatened for he would surely freeze to death. "Luckily, I'm in a forgiving mood. Get in the truck and stay there." He frog marched the prisoner around the nose of the Ram, tore open the door, and shoved him into the passenger's seat. "Don't touch anything either. I'd be well with in my rights to shoot you, you know. Now, I'm going to get a drink and then we're getting out of here."
The man's hands were still making those strange gestures and his face had a pleading quality to it. Walker wondered what the guy knew that he didn't; he had the distinct feeling he'd missed something, something important. The prisoner's behavior was too erratic to be justified as random and therefore constituted a pattern. Just what the pattern was, Walker couldn't figure out right now. He needed a warm bed, dry clothes, hot food, and sleep. He was still thirsty; at least he could remedy that particular need now.
Walker drank deeply; the water was cold and clear, just what he needed to restore some of his usual acuity. He filled the canteen, got back in the truck, and offered it to the prisoner. The man must have been thirsty as well, but he turned his head away and refused to drink any of it.
The storm had worsened to near white-out conditions by the time he pulled out of the rest stop. Blowing and drifting snow had obscured the road signs and erased any tire tracks. Suddenly confused, Walker wondered in which direction he should be driving. Resolutely, he turned the truck back onto the state highway in the direction he thought would lead to Amarillo, safety, and rest.
As the truck wallowed its way down the highway, the temperature continued to drop. Walker shivered, turned it up as high as it would go, and then thumped it in frustration when nothing seemed to penetrate the cold inside the cab. The heater on the Ram didn't work as well as it could have. "Well, it's not like I often need the heater in Dallas!" he snapped irritably when the prisoner looked at him quizzically. He'd taken to addressing random comments to the prisoner without expecting him to answer. Half the time he couldn't even be certain if he had spoken the words aloud or not, he was so tired.
Movement roused Walker from a daze. Someone was trying to tuck a blanket around him. "Alex?" he muttered blearily. No, that wasn't right. Alex was (hopefully) safe in Dallas and he was stuck on a state highway in the middle of nowhere transporting a prisoner strangely silent prisoner who communicated only in growls and gestures. He shook his head to clear the muddled thoughts. The headache was still with him and the resulting wave of nausea let him know that had been a mistake. Someone was still trying to tuck the blanket around him, to stop the shivering. The prisoner's face showed distress and concern as he concentrated but since his hands were now cuffed behind his back he wasn't making much progress.
"Nah, you keep it. I've got a jacket." Walker told the big man. "See? Jacket." He spoke the words slowly and plucked at the jacket collar to indicate the item to which he was referring. That seemed to satisfy the poor brute but he kept casting worried looks at the ranger and shaking his head. He still refused to drink any of the water out of the canteen though he must be awfully thirsty by now. Walker regretted having trussed the prisoner up so tightly and wondered if, hard as his head was pounding, his judgment had been impaired. Something, a vague memory, lingered just beyond reach of recall. Could it have been possible the prisoner had perceived a threat of some sort and Walker had badly misjudged the man's actions? He simply couldn't reconcile the prisoner's concern for his welfare with the man who had jumped him. What had he missed?
"Tell you what…when we reach the next town, I'll top off the gas tank and we'll grab something to eat. I'll cuff you in a more comfortable position then. But you can't jump me again, understand?" Again, that slow nod. "I mean it. Don't make me chase you down because if I have to do it again, you're going to be in a lot of trouble." He used the same vocal tone he'd used successfully with recalcitrant juvenile delinquents. Privately, he hoped he wouldn't actually have to chase the big man again because he frankly doubted, sleep deprived and chilled as he was, that he could catch him again.
As darkness fell, the headlights on the truck illuminated a highway marker, miraculously clear of snow, which stated they were on the outskirts of Broken Springs, New Mexico. Walker couldn't recall seeing that specific town along the route but that didn't mean anything. There were hundreds of these little almost-ghost towns hidden among the prairie grass and tucked into the foothills of the Sangre De Cristos mountain range and not all of them were on a map. This one wasn't likely to be an exception. A short while later, the blackness of the storm was broken by a feeble whitish glow on the horizon which gradually resolved itself into a single gas station, a small post office…and not much else.
Walker coasted the Dodge Ram into the pumps; he stared at the gas gauge with its needle sitting on "empty" and frowned. How could he have misjudged the amount of fuel left in the gas tank? If he'd tried to make it across the state line without stopping…. "It doesn't matter," he muttered, "this should get us to Amarillo before tomorrow morning." He got out of the cab. The wind swept under the portico of the gas station and tore at him like a knife but Walker was sweating. He unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his shirt collar as he filled the tank. He hung the nozzle back in its cradle and then opened the passenger's door. "I'll take off the chain and cuff your hands up front," he explained, "but you can't leave and you have to get right back in the truck, deal?" A more enthusiastic nod, accompanied by a smile, and the prisoner did as asked.
With his hands in front of him once more the fingers once more made gestures, slowly while the man kept studying Walker's face as though he expected to see some sign of comprehension. "I can't understand you," Walker exclaimed, exasperated. "If that's a language, I don't know it." Sighing, the prisoner rolled his eyes in the direction of Walker's canteen and pointed.
"You're thirsty?" He offered the canteen. A frantic head shake from the prisoner, and he turned his head aside to indicate he would not drink. "I don't know what you want!" He tilted the canteen back and drank deeply from it. Walker couldn't remember when he'd been so thirsty, short of when he'd been stationed in Viet Nam. There'd been water a-plenty, but…the memory hovered in his mind, once more short of recall. "I'll be right back. Stay put."
Walker went inside, picked up the a few bottles of water, grabbed something for them to eat, and took his purchases to the counter. The elderly clerk tried to persuade him to stay the night in town once he found out about Walker's intention to keep going. "These storms coming in off the Sangre de Christos are nasty," he said as he rang up the purchases. "There's no hotel in town but either I or the postmaster could put you up until the storm dies down. 'sides, you look a mite the worse for wear, young fella."
"Thanks all the same, but I can't," Walker replied. "I've got a prisoner to transport and you folks don't have a jail."
"Safe trip, then," the clerk replied. "Turn back if you can't get through or you find yourself feeling poorly. The offer stands."
He thanked the man again and headed back to the truck. The lights of the town quickly faded away and soon the Dodge's headlights were the only illumination in the blanketing darkness. Walker passed one of the water bottles to his prisoner. "Figured you might want this, since you won't drink mine. Wish I knew your reasons." The big man stared at the water bottle, uncapped it, and made a drinking gesture at Walker. "No, that's yours. I have my own. Drink." He mimicked the gesture the brute had just demonstrated and took a swallow from the canteen.
They rode in silence for a while. Walker had tried listening to the radio but the even the country music station sounded tinny and hurt his head. "You hungry? There's some food there." The prisoner had opened a bag of jerky and had tried offering to share it with him. Walker's stomach turned over uneasily and he shook his head. "You go ahead and eat. I…I'm not feelin' so great."
Walker's teeth chattered and his hands shook as he tried to keep the truck on the road. His world shrank until it consisted only of heat alternating with cold. He simply wanted to sleep until his body decided on one or the other. A hand batted gently but insistently at him. "Alex? Alex, what's happening to me?" No, it couldn't be Alex. She was an assistant district attorney, not a Texas Ranger, and she definitely didn't accompany him on multi-state busts. He felt inexplicably let down; someone else should have been here with him, someone he trusted. That someone should have had his back, could have sorted all this out for him.
"Gotta…pull over." He knew there were reasons he shouldn't leave the vehicle unattended but his stomach didn't care. The truck skidded to a halt. Walker fumbled with the door. He jumped out, leaving the keys in the ignition, leaned against the hood of the vehicle and was sick. The ranger still felt decidedly unwell when he was able to climb back inside the pick-up truck and put the vehicle back on the road.
Time and direction sense dissolved entirely. He lost count of how many times he stopped, forced himself to get back behind the wheel, and doggedly pressed on. The last time it happened, he had actually had to crawl back into the truck. A worried face peered down at him but that didn't concern Walker. It wasn't any of the faces he looked for to get him out of trouble and so it didn't matter.
The truck slowed, bouncing and jerking as it wandered off the shoulder of the road. "Sorry," he muttered, slumping forward, "I don't think…I can drive any more." Those were his last conscious thoughts as the darkness he'd been fighting for so many miles closed in around his senses. The Dodge, its momentum largely absorbed by passage through the tall prairie grasses, came to rest when it impacted with a lone cottonwood tree. Its tail lights shone through the blowing snow, beckoning.