“I want to do this right,” Josiah said.
“I know.”
“Be patient. We’ll find our time, our place.”
“I will be . . . as patient as I can.”
“I have to go,” Josiah said, knowing full well that if he didn’t leave at that very moment, he would scoop up Pearl and run off with her, not stopping until they found a private place where they could shred each other’s clothes off and never look back.
“When will I see you again?” Pearl asked.
“Soon. I promise. Soon.”
* * *
The house was empty. Ofelia, the wet nurse, had taken Lyle to her home in Little Mexico, the area of Austin that was populated mostly by Mexicans and was not all that welcoming to Anglos. Josiah didn’t worry about Lyle’s safety. Not there, not with Ofelia—he was certain she would shield the boy from any harm, putting her own life at risk before anything happened to Lyle.
It was a small house, just a box really, with one small bedroom that Josiah shared with Lyle and a kitchen and living area all in one room, a little bigger than a horse stall, with a privy out back, along with a chicken coop and a small garden that Ofelia tended to. Cool weather plants, like lettuce and carrots, were already reacting to the May sun, cowering back, wilting, but still edible.
The house was a couple of blocks from the train tracks, and sometimes in the middle of the night, the whole place rattled and threatened to collapse as the trains came and went.
A new track was being laid for the Great Northern Railroad, coming in through town, in the opposite direction, cutting through the residential area right down the middle of Cypress Avenue. Some houses had already been demolished, with more to come, and the tenants displaced.
The new railroad would be far enough away not to threaten the existence of Josiah’s house, but he wondered how much more noise the train would add to his life. City life was difficult—and loud—enough for him the way it was.
He was glad to be home, and even happier to have a moment or two alone—which was a rare occurrence when he was off the trail, not riding with the company of Rangers that were his friends as well as his comrades.
Josiah unbuckled his gun belt and placed it gently on the bureau that took up nearly one whole wall of the bedroom.
He had worn a swivel rig since he’d joined the Frontier Battalion. It was a more casual, and more dangerous, way to wear a gun than a standard belt holster, but the rig had its advantages.
A lot of the boys in the Texas Rangers wore swivel rigs, which were nothing more than a metal plate attached to their belts with the stud head of an extra-long hammer screw slipped into a slot. The stud stuck out, and the gun rested just back of the trigger guard, allowing it to be quickly swung upward without having to draw it out of a holster. He could shoot through the open toe of the leather holster. Saving seconds meant saving lives—usually his own.
Perhaps it was the way he carried the Peacemaker, a Colt .45 single-action Army, that had prompted Rory Farnsworth to suggest, essentially, that Josiah was no better than a lowly gunslinger.
It was a hard accusation to swallow, and Josiah had not been able to rid himself of the depiction the entire time he’d been escorting Pearl back to Miss Amelia Angle’s boardinghouse, and then on the solemn walk home.
Somehow, he’d lost the sheriff’s respect, and that seemed to matter to Josiah much more than he’d thought it ever would—or should. He had to wonder if Farnsworth’s opinion was the common perception people had of him in all of Austin.
Was he really just a lawless killer without any respect for the living and weak? Josiah sighed outwardly at the thought, and at the recognition that he really did care what people thought about him . . . and the Rangers. Maybe it was more that than anything.
Josiah was ashamed of dampening the reputation of the Rangers in any way. The organization had been his salvation, a place to run when he needed to start a new life. Now he had damaged the one thing that had been there for him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to restore his reputation, or the Rangers’, in anyone’s eyes.
And then, the encounter Josiah and Pearl had witnessed between Blanche Dumont and Rory Farnsworth had been even more confusing.
Josiah didn’t know who had died, whose coffin was being carried to the cemetery, but something told him that Blanche Dumont thought Rory Farnsworth was responsible. Why else would she have spit on him?
He drew a deep breath then. He didn’t know the answer to that question, and he hoped he didn’t have a reason to care. It was just another event in the day of the city that didn’t affect him, though it left him wondering, much like most events that he was witness to.
The only comfort Josiah had in the city was Ofelia, watching over Lyle. He knew when he was out on the trail that they had each other and they weren’t alone.
The move to Austin had been much more difficult than he’d thought it would be, even though he’d actually spent more time away from the city, out riding with the company of Rangers, than in the small, one-bedroom clapboard house at the corner of Sixth and Pecan.
Even with his current circumstance in flux, his good standing with the Rangers in question, Josiah had little desire to move back to the small farm in Seerville from where he came.
There was no question that he missed the piney woods of East Texas and the familiarity of everything that surrounded him there, but he was never good at being a farmer, not even when Lily was alive. That’s why he rode with the Rangers after coming back from the war, when they were less organized and the money was even more infrequent than it was now.
Farming was laborious, a gamble that constantly held him in a state of worry and fear. Would there be enough food, enough milk, enough of everything for his growing family to survive? And then when the State Police, promoted by the former governor of Texas, took over in the early seventies, Josiah rode with them, but only briefly, and only because of his respect for the now deceased Captain Hiram Fikes.
His most revered job was that of marshal of Seerville, the closest town to the farm. But when the railroad curved through Tyler, miles away from Seerville, the town up and died, leaving little to marshal over. Not long after, Lily and the girls died, leaving him with Lyle, under Ofelia’s care.
Captain Fikes once again came to his aid, demanding he get back up in the saddle and ride with the new Frontier Battalion, formed officially in the spring of 1874, after Governor Coke had won the election, leaving Reconstruction to the past once and for all.
Neither of them, the captain nor Josiah, knew then what fate had in store for them. It was not long after that that Captain Fikes met his death, murdered outright, the killer brought to justice—and Josiah found himself in a constant storm of trials and tribulations that made life in Seerville seem childlike and pastoral.
He had never been so unsure of his footing, and where his life was going to lead him, as he was now. The only great shining hope he could see before him was his affection for Pearl and watching Lyle grow into a well-mannered and much different boy than Josiah could have ever imagined.
He stared at the Peacemaker on the bureau and thought about its place in his life.
For as long as Josiah could remember, he had always worn a gun on his belt and always, as far as he was concerned, stood on the right side of the law.
If he was a professional at anything, then Josiah considered himself a professional lawman and nothing else. It was how he saw himself even more so the older he got, now in his mid-thirties.
It didn’t matter that the Rangers didn’t wear badges or have uniform requirements, keeping the peace was in his blood, and there was nothing else he would ever consider doing with his life, unless he was forced away from the Rangers. And even then, without much consideration, Josiah knew he would end up as a deputy somewhere, for a man like Rory Farnsworth, who knew too littl
e about the human side of the law and too much about the power and prestige that he thought came along with wearing a badge.
There was no question that Josiah knew deep within himself that he was angry at Farnsworth, that he was passing judgment on the sheriff. But at one time, Josiah had thought that Rory was his friend. He wasn’t so sure now.
The Peacemaker was his only trusted friend within constant reach, a permanent fixture in his life and in his house. He could not imagine his life without it.
A quick, soft touch to the barrel left his fingertips cold.
There was no life to the metal; it only breathed when it meant to destroy—or save. Then it came alive, hot for a second, and retreated to sleep, always ready, always waiting at his command.
For a brief moment then, Josiah let the regret of the past, and the silence of his own house, surround him.
He did not know how many men he had killed in his lifetime. There was no tally card, no trophy of every soul that had been lost to his bullets. War had brought the taste of killing when he was nothing more than a boy, set out on a duty-bound journey that crippled him invisibly in many ways, but left him physically whole and with all of his limbs.
Many men hobbled home on one leg and a crutch, never to be the same, never to be the man they were before the War Between the States erupted and changed everything.
Maybe, Josiah thought, stepping back, not bringing Pearl back to the house so they could share an intimate moment alone was a bigger mistake than he’d thought it was at the time.
CHAPTER 5
It was past midnight when the knock came at the door. Lyle barely stirred, and Josiah, a light sleeper himself, was glad that the boy had not been woken up. The knock was more of a tap than anything else, and when it came again, he was certain someone wanted to see him and would refuse to give up until he went to the door.
He hitched up his long johns, grabbed the Peacemaker off of the bureau, and padded to the door as quietly as he could.
After finding Josiah home, Ofelia had returned home to Little Mexico hours earlier. Everything was in its place and cleaned for the day, as it was every evening before Ofelia departed.
“Who is it?” Josiah said, loud enough for the person on the other side of the door to hear.
“It is me, señor, Juan Carlos. Juan Carlos Montegné.”
Josiah didn’t immediately open the door, even though Juan Carlos was a trusted friend. “How do I know it is you?”
“It is your friend, señor, Scrap Elliot. He is in trouble, and I have come for you to help him.”
Josiah reached for the doorknob but still did not entirely trust the voice beyond the door, even though it sounded like Juan Carlos.
The last he had known, Juan Carlos was still in South Texas, living in a small fishing village outside of Corpus Christi. But it had been a month since he’d seen Juan Carlos there himself, and there was no doubt that with the old Mexican, change came quickly. For as long as Josiah had known Juan Carlos, he had always been a vagabond, edging the shadows, much like a possum wandering from one place to the next.
The last Josiah had heard, Scrap Elliot, a fellow Ranger and a partner in the company, was still in South Texas, too, riding with Captain Leander McNelly, taking on Juan Cortina. Or, at the very least, pushing the incursion back into Mexico.
“When did Scrap come back to Austin?” Josiah said.
“Only yesterday, señor, back with the rest of the company, and trouble found him very quickly. He is in jail for the killing of a whore.”
Josiah opened the door then. He smiled slightly at the sight of his friend, then jerked his head, motioning for Juan Carlos to come inside. Happiness was not exactly what Josiah felt, considering the news he’d just been told.
It was not known to anyone how old Juan Carlos really was, but his hair was white as the snow on top of a mountain, contrasting even more brilliantly against his dark brown skin. Juan Carlos was half-Mexican and was the half brother of Hiram Fikes, Pearl’s dead father and Josiah’s former captain. Still able but less spry after taking a bullet near the gut in Brackett, Texas, several months prior, Juan Carlos operated in a variety of different capacities but most often as a spy for the Rangers. At least he had when his brother was alive, and more recently for Captain McNelly.
Josiah looked up and down the street to make sure Juan Carlos was alone, then closed the door softly and locked it.
Juan Carlos stood in the center of the room, a little hunched over, a natural stance not indicating pain or trouble, dressed in near rags, with no knife or gun showing. There was no question that the man was armed, just not visibly. Juan Carlos liked to fade into the crowd and not be noticed. He had saved Josiah’s life on more than one occasion and had more fighting skills, and gun talents, than any one man ought to have a right to. The fool who mistook Juan Carlos for a weak old man would end up a dead fool if he pushed him around or bullied him, or anyone he cared about.
“What are you afraid of, Señor Josiah?” Juan Carlos asked, his voice low in tone, aware of Josiah’s situation with Lyle.
“Nothing.” Josiah laid the Peacemaker on the table in the kitchen. “Tell me about Elliot.”
“Afraid of nothing? Certainly you do not expect me to believe that? Treating a friend like a stranger at the door? Life in the city has made you a nervous man, Josiah Wolfe. I am surprised by the change in you.”
“It’s not the city that has made me nervous.” Josiah glanced unconsciously to the back room where Lyle slept.
“You fear for the safety of your son.” It was not a question but a statement.
Josiah stared at the old Mexican, not acknowledging whether he was right or wrong. “I have made enemies everywhere I have gone, Juan Carlos, you know that. I can’t be too careful.”
“Sí, Señor Josiah, Cortina would like nothing more than to see you dead. But he has been driven deeper into Mexico by McNelly and the other company of Rangers that joined him there.”
“They will go after Cortina regardless of the border.”
Juan Carlos hunched his shoulders. “It is no longer my concern. I followed McNelly’s company home to see my niece. Is she well?”
“I asked about Elliot.” Josiah sat down at the table after lighting a hurricane lamp. The room immediately smelled of coal oil. “You said he killed a whore? That doesn’t sound like something he would be involved in. Elliot’s always ready for a fight, but with a man not a woman. He’s scared of his own shadow around them. Even whores.”
“That is why I am here, señor.”
“And this is not a ruse? After everything that has happened, I’m a little suspicious of what Juan Cortina is capable of.”
“You are in no danger that I know of,” Juan Carlos said.
“That’s good to know. But my troubles are far from cured even if Juan Cortina is hundreds of miles away. I faced down his last bounty hunter, and I’m sure there will be more. Following you, or using Elliot as a way to lure me out in the open, would not be beneath them.”
“Ah,” Juan Carlos said, “but very unwise since you are not alone.”
“I’m sure it would be.” Josiah acknowledged Juan Carlos’s prowess with weapons and his fighting skill, bringing a smile to the old man’s face.
“You still have troubles to face of your own. Elliot is like a bull running loose, looking for whatever he can find to break. It has caught up with him now. But I thought you should know. No matter what I think of the niño, I believe if you were in need of his help, he would come to your side.”
Josiah nodded. “He’s done so in the past. I owe him my life, but I can’t let it show or his head swells even bigger than it already is.”
Scrap Elliot was not much over the age of twenty years old, and Josiah had not known him prior to joining up with the Frontier Battalion in May of 1874. It had been at the s
tart of the new Rangers, the official Rangers, organized by Governor Coke to quell the Comanche raids and restore faith and order in what was the corrupt State Police system. By all accounts, the organization had been successful, and the Comanche were nearly defeated, or at least on the run into Indian Territory.
It seemed that whenever there’d been a mission, Josiah had been paired with Elliot. The boy was one of the best shots Josiah had ever seen, and a fine horseman, too. But he was brash, quick-mouthed, and a hothead, always looking, as Juan Carlos had pointed out, for nothing but trouble.
“The Rangers came into town early this evening,” Juan Carlos said.
Josiah didn’t say anything, but he was relieved at the news, glad that he would be able to face Captain McNelly after the latest incident and find out what his status with the Rangers was once and for all.
“I followed at a distance,” Juan Carlos continued. “It was time for me to leave the seashore. There was too much sadness there for me to bear. And it was no longer safe for me. Mexicans are being killed for no other reason than the color of their skin, and the words that escape their tongues. I could not hide behind my Anglo blood. It shows itself poorly. Besides, the village was convinced I had brought them trouble, a curse on their way of life. The fish had abandoned them, and my presence was to blame, or so they said.”
After Cortina had raided Corpus Christi earlier in the month, several vigilantes got together, calling themselves minute groups, to protect the city. They were nothing but thugs looking for reasons to kill Mexicans. The uprising, as well as the raid, was the main reason Governor Coke and the adjunct general, William Steele had sent McNelly’s company of Rangers to South Texas in the first place and then followed up with the Frontier Battalion, doubling the punch against Cortina.
Prior to that, after Josiah had left the Frontier Battalion and joined McNelly’s company, he had been assigned to the city to serve as a spy, to arrange contacts, so they could get a better understanding of the cattle rustling operations taking place and Cortina’s full intentions. Lyle had taken sick, and Josiah had come home, followed by a killer enticed by Cortina’s bounty. Josiah killed the man, but as far as he knew, the bounty was still valid. The only woman, as far as Josiah knew, that Juan Carlos had loved had been killed during the raids—and Josiah had been there, had made a bad decision that had led to the woman’s death. He didn’t think Juan Carlos would ever forgive him, but he had, or seemed to at least.
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