“That’ll be all, Wolfe. I would suggest you wait until the crowd has dispersed before you leave. We will be in touch,” Steele said, gathering up the papers in front of him. “Oh, one other thing, do not leave town under any circumstances. If you run, I will be under the assumption that you have lied to us all, that you are guilty, and I will have you hunted down like an animal. Is that clear?”
CHAPTER 4
Fellow Ranger Scrap Elliot was standing in the hall, waiting to go in next to face the trio of men. Scrap was the only witness to the killing of Pete Feders, and Josiah had expected all along that they both would be called in to account for the incident.
“Wolfe.” Scrap nodded sheepishly. “How’d it go in there?”
Josiah stopped, a slight smile crossing his face. Scrap, too, had dressed in his finest clothes: black pants, a white shirt similar to Steele’s, in serious need of the touch of an iron, and a dark brown jacket that rode up his wrists about two inches.
“What are you smilin’ at? These are the best britches I got since I spend most of my time on the trail. No need for nothin’ fancy as far as I’m concerned,” Scrap said.
“I appreciate the effort, Elliot, I’m not laughing at you.”
“Oh.” Scrap flashed a smile back, then let it fade away quickly. He was slightly shorter than Josiah, with a head full of solid black hair and eyes that never stopped searching. From a distance, Elliot could look bony, but his muscles were tight, and he was rangy, a quick-handed fighter, too, which was where his nickname most likely originated. He and Josiah had never discussed the origin of the name. Josiah thought it was fitting and had just accepted Scrap as being Scrap.
From the time Josiah joined up with the Frontier Battalion, it seemed as if the two of them were being paired together. Never by choice, but always by duty or fate. It was an unlikely partnership.
Scrap, whose real name was Robert Earl Elliot, was young—hardly twenty years old—impetuous, immature, and one of the best rifle shots Josiah had ever come across. The boy was a damn fine horseman, too.
Scrap’s parents were killed in a Comanche raid when the boy was young. He and his younger sister, Myra Lynn, had survived the attack. Myra Lynn had joined a convent in Dallas and lived as an Ursuline nun. Scrap fueled his anger with the hope of becoming an Indian hunter with the Rangers. That same anger almost got Josiah killed in Lost Valley a few months back, when the Rangers had their first violent encounter with a band of Comanche and Kiowa—the same conflict Jones led and spoke of during the interrogation.
Trust and understanding were hard enough for Josiah to endow a stranger with—but especially a boy who had put Josiah’s life at risk. He would carry the Lost Valley scar for the rest of his life. Still, Scrap had earned a bit of the treasure of friendship that Josiah doled out sparingly, and some respect, as well. But none of that meant that Josiah liked how Scrap acted sometimes, or agreed with the things that came unbidden out of the boy’s mouth.
Josiah could barely hide the nervousness he felt, knowing Scrap was going to face a kind of pressure from the three men inside the small room like he’d never faced before.
“What you want me to tell them, Wolfe?”
“Just the truth, Elliot. You do that, and everything will turn out all right.”
The door opened, and Captain McNelly glared at Josiah. “Ranger Elliot, we’re ready for you.”
Josiah nodded at Scrap, telling him silently to go on.
Scrap walked inside the room, pushing past McNelly as gently as he could.
“Remember what Steele said, Wolfe, don’t plan on going anywhere until we’ve made our decision.”
“I’ll be waiting at my home, Captain, you can count on that,” Josiah said, turning to walk down the long, empty hall, feeling more alone than he’d felt in a long time.
There was no easy way out of the building.
Josiah could barely stand the idea of sneaking around like an outlaw, but he’d seen, firsthand, the viciousness and rage that a group of vigilantes could impose on any man of their choosing.
When John Wesley Hardin killed a deputy, Charlie Webb, in Comanche, a gang had formed and dragged Hardin’s kin, who’d been put in the jail for safekeeping, out into the dark night and hung three of them unmercifully, their toes dangling near the ground, their death slow and painful. Hardin escaped unharmed, but the destruction he left behind still haunted the town to this day.
Not that Josiah thought that he was in danger of being hanged, but the newspaper had been pretty hard on him. He was certain that the Widow Fikes was behind the stories, pushing for him to leave town, or be tried in a court of law for the killing of Pete Feders. She had promised to make Josiah’s life miserable, promised that he would never see Pearl Fikes again, or be allowed on the Fikes’ property. So far, the angry old woman had kept her promise.
The Widow Fikes had wanted nothing more than for Pete to marry Pearl and rescue her from the financial trouble that had befallen the estate. She blamed Josiah for her losses, her troubles, and the rift that now existed between her and her daughter.
It was difficult to take, knowing someone was out to destroy you. That was a position Josiah had never found himself in before. Hunted down, yes. The object of revenge, yes. But to experience the hate of a whole city, to be driven out of his own home, or at least to not feel comfortable, or welcome, well, that was a new experience, and not one that Josiah wanted to ever have again. He could become enraged if he let himself, but that would be a mistake, and he knew it. Losing control would result in terrible consequences, more than he was already standing in account for.
Josiah was certainly not going to walk out the front door and into the crowd of chanting demonstrators. It was hard telling what would happen if he did.
He made his way down the stairs to the back of the building.
There was no gun on his hip. There was no need to carry a weapon into the capitol building, or at least he hadn’t thought so when he’d left the house.
The only weapon he carried now was a small knife in his boot, not that it would do him any good in the event of an attack.
The capitol building was quiet, with most people aware of what was happening. Still, once Josiah made it to the first floor, there were several people milling about in the hallway, waiting for something or someone to arrive.
One man he recognized right away was the reporter for the Austin Statesman, Paul Hoagland.
Hoagland, a short, mousy man, who wore a bowler, wireframe glasses, and usually had an unlit cigar dangling from his pale lips, saw Josiah about the same time Josiah saw him.
“Wolfe!” Hoagland shouted, running toward him, drawing a pad of paper from his hip pocket and grabbing a pencil from behind his ear at the same time. “Wait!”
Josiah picked up his pace, nearly breaking into a run. So far, he had been able to avoid meeting with the reporter face-to-face. But unless he could come up with a grand escape plan, it looked like his luck was about to run out.
Maybe, he thought, it’s time to face this nasty little man and make this all go away.
Josiah planted his feet and spun around, coming to a sudden stop. “What?”
The look on the reporter’s face was one of surprise, almost shock. He almost couldn’t stop in time, almost ran straight into Josiah.
“I have a few questions for you,” Hoagland said, taking the cigar out of his mouth, trying to catch his breath.
The man smelled of smoke and liquor, like he’d spent the better part of the day in the saloon across from the capitol building, which was probably the case.
“I’ve already answered all of the questions I’m going to, now why don’t you leave me alone?”
Hoagland chuckled. “You’re the big story, Ranger Wolfe. Until the next big story comes along, you might as well take some satisfaction from being the object of everybody’s attention, if not their affection.”
“I don’t like that idea much,” Josiah said, looking beyond the reporter as a crowd grew,
coming into the building from outside.
Josiah felt a nervous twitch ride up his spine, and he regretted not carrying his gun.
A quick glance over his shoulder told him that the way out of the back of the building was still clear.
“Doesn’t matter much what you want at this point, Wolfe. The people want their story, and they’re making darn sure everyone on Congress Avenue hears those demands. This isn’t going away anytime soon. You should have thought about that when you killed Captain Feders.”
Josiah felt his anger rising. Hoagland was trying to provoke him. “I’m not answering your questions, sir.”
“I won’t give up.”
“I’ll tell you what, Hoagland. Let’s wait and see what comes about after the meetings today, then you come to my house, and I’ll sit down and talk with you. How’s that?”
“An exclusive?”
“Call it what you want, but if I don’t get out of here soon, you’ll have your next big story. I’ll be torn limb from limb.”
“That sure would sell some newspapers, now, wouldn’t it?”
The chants were growing louder, the crowd closer. Josiah could smell the anger in the air. It was like kerosene, ready to explode at any moment.
“Murderer! Killer!” was being repeated over and over again.
“I need to get out of here,” Josiah said.
“I can have your word that you’ll talk to me?”
Josiah nodded yes. “My word is all I have left.”
“All right, then,” Hoagland said. “I’d run if I were you.”
CHAPTER 5
A shiny black coach sat waiting outside the back door of the capitol building. The polish gleamed in the midday sun, making it look like the fancy rig was downright glowing. Two horses, both solid black and impeccably cared for, stood in wait, while the driver, dressed professionally in black, too, began swinging his arms wildly upon seeing Josiah exit the Old Stone Capitol in haste.
“Come, Señor Wolfe, in here. Hurry, you have very little time. It is safe, I promise you.”
Josiah recognized the driver immediately. It was Pedro, the manservant and general overseer of the Fikes estate.
The door to the coach popped open, but the window panels were pulled closed, so it was impossible to tell who was inside.
The last thing Josiah wanted to do was jump into the fire from the frying pan, boarding the coach that looked more suited for a funeral parade than an escape and coming face-to-face with the Widow Fikes. He’d had enough grilling for one day, and if he never saw that woman again, it would be too soon.
Noise from the crowd grew louder from inside the building. Josiah only had a second to decide whether to make a run for it, leading the angry mob to the only safe place he had left, his home, or trying to ditch them in the nearby Mexican section of Austin, “Little Mexico,” with which he was more familiar than most Anglos—or trying his luck with the coach. Either was a risk, but in the end, with the screams growing louder, and the crowd drawing ever closer, Josiah chose to trust Pedro.
The manservant had showed him no ill intent in the past, but the allegiance the tall, well-groomed Mexican had to the Widow Fikes was unmistakable—he was loyal to her commands and whims more than to any other person without exception. Except for one: Pearl.
Pedro was even more loyal to the widow’s daughter than to the widow, and it was that thought that prompted Josiah to jump inside the waiting coach.
He slammed the door behind him as he dove into an empty bench seat.
Darkness surrounded him as an unknown arm pulled the door closed and locked it tight.
Chants came from outside as the crowd burst from the building in fervent chase. Someone threw a rock at the coach, and another angry pursuer hit it with a hand, struggling to open the locked door.
“Murderer! Killer! Traitor! Hang! Hang! Hang!”
Before Josiah could scream at Pedro to get a move on, the coach lurched forward and began to pull away from the crowd.
Still lost in darkness, Josiah could not see what was happening outside of the coach, if they were surrounded or being chased. Nor could he see who was sitting across from him, but he had a hint; the smell of spring filled his nose. It was a familiar fragrance, one that he immediately recognized and associated with Pearl and not her mother.
The coach was at full speed now, the inside still jarring and shaking as Pedro cut and turned every which way he could, obviously trying to escape the mob without causing any harm to anyone inside or outside, as he tried to shake the pursuers off his trail.
“Josiah.” It was a whisper in the dark. It was Pearl. “I’m sorry, Josiah.”
A shift of weight, then a rustle of clothes met Josiah ears, and he suddenly felt Pearl against him, burrowing her face into his chest.
His eyes were adjusting now, and the side panels cracked and pulled as the coach sped away, teetering at the turns, allowing bits of harsh sunlight inside the close quarters. Thankfully, Pearl was alone.
He was relieved to see her, but having her next to him, being alone with her, under no scrutiny at all, made him extremely uncomfortable—and happy at the same time.
Josiah tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go, no escaping Pearl’s embrace. He felt his chest grow moist and realized that Pearl was sobbing into it. Her tears were warm and heavy. Crying women were a mystery to him.
The loudness of the crowd had dissipated, but the ride in the coach was still thunderous and noisy.
“I thought I would never see you again,” Pearl said, raising her face to Josiah’s.
Even tearstained and full of emotion, there was no mistaking the striking beauty of the face of the woman Josiah found himself in the company of. He had to restrain every muscle in his body not to kiss her deeply.
Pearl Fikes had long blond hair that looked like it came straight out of a fairy tale and could have been spun into gold. Her eyes, when not full of tears, were a soft blue and were gentle, loving, and kind—unless she was cross; then there was no mistaking that Pearl was the daughter of Captain Hiram Fikes, unyielding to fools and idiots, with a stubborn streak a mile long.
Josiah was glad to be near Pearl, regardless of the scrutiny, glad to take in the fragrance of her skin, to touch her, to hold her.
From the first moment he had seen her—standing on the balcony of the grand house on the estate in the falling evening light—Josiah was certain she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Guilt, of course, had taken over his heart, because his love for Lily still lived deep in his soul. He had tried to ignore Pearl, tried to deny the attraction he felt for her . . . but he could not resist. Not when she obviously felt the same way about him.
“How did you know that I had a meeting in the capitol?” Josiah asked.
Pedro had slowed the coach, and Josiah pulled away from Pearl slightly, freeing his arm so he could peek outside. They were north of downtown Austin. It looked like they had outrun the mob.
“I know far more about what’s been going on than you think I do, Josiah Wolfe.”
Josiah opened the blind halfway, wishing he had a gun with him. “I don’t need a rescuer.”
“Obviously you do.” The sunlight beamed off Pearl’s wet face. She straightened herself up and produced a delicate lace handkerchief out of nowhere and began to dab her face dry. “What was your plan? Just to run as fast you could?”
“I was going to lead them into Little Mexico, a place very few Anglos go, even in the light of day.”
“But you know your way around there?”
“Thanks to Juan Carlos, I do.”
“Well, I suppose that was a good enough plan.”
“I wasn’t expecting a crowd.”
“I’m sure you weren’t,” Pearl said, tucking the handkerchief away in the folds of her dress. It was not black like everything else Josiah was surrounded by. Her dress was off-white, perfect in every way, and looked like it had come straight off the shelf in Hadley’s Lady’s Shoppe, a fine and expen
sive store on Congress Avenue.
Josiah exhaled deeply and focused on Pearl’s face. The last time he had seen her was after he returned from near Laredo, after he faced Pete Feders and pulled the trigger. Her mother was furious, but Pearl had made it clear that she was not distraught by the news, that she saw it as their chance to be together. Josiah wasn’t so sure then that they could ever have a life together. He was even less sure now.
“Where is Pedro taking us?” Josiah asked.
“A spot on the river where we can be alone and talk.”
Josiah settled back into the corner of the seat, as far away from Pearl as was physically possible. “You think that’s a good idea?”
“You shouldn’t let my mother scare you.”
“Have you read the papers lately?”
“Every word. You think my mother is behind the headlines?”
“I have reason to believe she is, yes,” Josiah said.
Pearl nodded, glanced out of the open window quickly, then turned back to Josiah. Her face was less than serene, but not angry, perhaps annoyed. “I cannot dispute the fact that Mother may be feeding the flames, but even without any intervention or prodding on her part, the papers would be making this a bigger story than it really is.”
“And you think it’s a good thing to be seen with me?”
“I couldn’t go another minute without seeing you.” Tears welled up quickly in Pearl’s soft blue eyes.
“How can I court you properly with all of this happening? With your mother banishing me from your property forever? I just think we need time, Pearl. Let things quiet down a little bit. At least wait and see what General Steele and the others decide about my fate. If there is a trial, then all of this will just get worse. And where’s that going to leave us?”
“I’ll stand by your side proudly.”
“I know you will, but I think that would just make things worse for you. So far, the papers have been kind to you, painting me as an interloper, a specter of greed, only after your inheritance. That’s why I suspect that your mother is pulling some strings. Otherwise, we would be flayed together as conspirators in Pete’s death.”
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