Still focused on the man with the rifle, Josiah swept out of an easy ride and up a trail of broken rocks, keeping the man clearly in sight. He wasn’t sure of the intention, if the man was with the drive or not, but any man pointing a gun down at a moving herd of longhorns wasn’t up to any good as far as Josiah was concerned.
Just as Josiah crested the top of the hill, the man fired his first shot into the herd. The gun was a Sharps Big Fifty, a long rifle mostly used for hunting buffalo, and the report echoed out over the shallow valley like thunder.
Josiah spurred Clipper to a full run, drawing his Peacemaker out of his holster to get a shot off at the unidentified man.
The shooter was about a hundred yards away. It didn’t take a second shot to accomplish the goal of starting a stampede. The longhorns were already nervous. Before the echo of the Sharps was silent, the cattle were spooked and running at full speed.
In nearly the blink of an eye, the ground began to shake, and a dense cloud of brown dust began to rise fully into the air like a series of explosions a mile long had gone off all at once.
Josiah pushed Clipper harder, trying to get a clear shot at the man with the Sharps, who’d caught sight of Josiah. From a distance, they were staring each other in the eye, albeit for a brief second—but long enough for Josiah to recognize the man.
Miguel, the guitar player, had come to wreak havoc on the cattle drive for some unknown reason. Josiah was now certain that he’d seen the man in the saloon. It didn’t take a great deal of deductive skill to figure out that Miguel was trailing him but had yet to show himself and do direct harm.
There wasn’t time, at the moment, to question his motives or actions.
Josiah pulled the trigger and did something he rarely did; instead of taking a careful aim and assessing the shot so it counted, he fanned the hammer, and pulled the trigger six times as fast as he could, emptying all of the bullets from his gun in the direction he saw Miguel standing.
The cloud of dust from below rose into the sky as fast as it had started and swirled around Josiah, completely enveloping him, blinding him momentarily, causing him to pull back on Clipper as hard as he could, bringing the Appaloosa to a full stop. He had no idea whether or not he’d hit Miguel. He sure hoped he had.
There were men on the cattle drive now at serious risk because of the actions of the guitar player. There was no reason Josiah could think of, nothing that made any sense to him, why Miguel would do such a thing—unless it was to take advantage of the start of the drive, when the wranglers were green, uncertain, maybe a little lazy as things got moving.
What better time to break up the herd and scatter as many cattle as possible to waiting rustlers, Josiah thought to himself, lost in the dust cloud, still unable to move about freely. It was a ploy used before by Cortina and his ilk.
If the rustlers managed to run off with a hundred head of the two thousand that were heading north, then they’d add nearly four thousand dollars to their coffers. The coffers of Juan Cortina, most likely, if that was truly the case.
Which, of course, meant that Miguel had been working for Cortina all along, if Josiah’s assumption was true.
The realization sent shivers up and down Josiah’s spine. That would mean Maria Villareal had been taken in by Miguel, trusted him, let him know what she knew, that there were Texas Ranger spies in Corpus Christi. Not just one. At least two. Miguel had come looking, portraying himself as a friend, trying to alter Josiah’s view of McNelly, when all along Josiah should have been more suspicious of Miguel. If he had been, then maybe, just maybe, Maria would still be alive, and Juan Carlos would not hate him—they would still be friends.
Trust no one, McNelly had ordered. An order that Josiah had examined over and over again, certain now more than ever that he had failed.
The rumble in the valley below grew more distant as the cattle ran north. The dust cloud began to thin, and Clipper pushed and pulled nervously, dancing a bit against Josiah’s hold on the reins.
Particles of dust had made Josiah’s eyes water, but as soon as he saw clearly, there was nothing before him. The spot where Miguel had stood on the ridge with the Sharps was vacant of anything—like the guitar player had never existed at all—but Josiah knew what he’d seen, and the results were obvious as the longhorns continued to stampede north.
Josiah heard a maddening whistle and looked below to see Hughes swinging up behind the running cows. He waved his arms angrily, the message clear: What the hell are you doing up there? Get down here and help round up these cows!
Another quick glance told Josiah for certain that Miguel was gone. There wasn’t time to see if he had been wounded or was just gone; Hughes needed him and needed him now.
Josiah spun Clipper around and raced down the side of the hill to meet up with Hughes, who was riding on the right flank of the trailing cattle, keeping a sharp eye forward.
They were at the tail end of the herd as it rushed ahead. Josiah had never felt the earth rumble so violently, so distinctly. There was nothing but the smell of fear in the air.
He finally caught up with Hughes.
“We need to head to the front and help run the head of the herd into a tight circle. That’s the only way they’ll stop. Bowman will already be up there and need all of the help he can get,” Hughes shouted.
Before Josiah could say anything, Hughes spurred his horse and tore away with an expected sense of urgency. Every man on the drive was facing a life-or-death situation, and no matter whether Josiah was being paid or volunteering his services, the truth was, he might be responsible for having led Miguel to the herd. Not that the rustlers wouldn’t have found it anyway.
Hughes disappeared into the dust, dodging horns and wild-eyed bulls and cows.
Josiah followed suit, tapping Clipper with both heels of his boots, giving the horse his head and yelling, “Let’s go, let’s go.”
The Appaloosa understood the command, sensed the urgent need to run, and followed after Hughes.
Josiah pulled the bandana on his neck up over his nose so he wasn’t breathing in lungfuls of dust, gripped the reins, and let Clipper run as fast as he could.
Minutes seemed like hours, sweat poured out of Josiah’s skin—a mixture of heat and anxiety. His eyes burned. Clipper’s coat began to lather up. Running full out was becoming more and more normal, and under some circumstances, Josiah enjoyed the ride. But not under this circumstance. At every glance, he was dodging a longhorn or, at the very least, the points of horns, which could be deadly to Clipper. Add in the disappearance of Miguel and his Sharps Fifty, and the uncertainty of every second that the longhorns continued to stampede was one of the most dangerous situations he’d found himself in in recent memory.
It seemed like the herd went on forever, screaming, running at breakneck speeds. Somewhere in the distance behind him, Josiah heard another loud boom. It was hard to tell whether it was a gunshot or thunder, but the sound frightened the longhorns even more, making them run wildly and even more unpredictably.
The last time Josiah had seen the sky there was barely a cloud to be seen. It was highly unlikely that the boom was thunder. Most likely, it was a gunshot, set to keep the longhorns running as long as possible.
Josiah dodged a big bull with a tip span on his horns about six feet wide, probably weighing in at nine hundred pounds or more. It was a big longhorn, the biggest Josiah had ever seen, and barely missed gouging Clipper in the neck.
He pulled a hard right on the direct lead, just in time to keep the horse safe.
Hughes was completely out of sight, and the dust still rose up from the ground like smoke. They had ridden hard for nearly a mile, and there were still plenty of cattle running alongside him.
Silhouettes of men on horses began to appear, and it didn’t take Josiah long to be able to distinguish Scrap in the midst of the longhorns, riding tight in the lead like he was as experienced as any man on the drive. Seeing the boy in the middle of the herd didn’t surprise Josiah. Scrap
had never lacked for heart and was usually the first man to jump into the fray and put up a knuckle or gun with the least amount of prodding needed.
Josiah caught up to Hughes, who had slowed as the herd grew thick. Bowman was up ahead, as well, where he should be, where Josiah expected him to be, and was shouting out orders, but the words were muffled.
“Stay behind me,” Hughes ordered. “Push all the cows in as close as possible.”
The screaming and bawling had turned into a chorus of moos, annoyed at the growing close quarters the longhorns found themselves in.
Josiah did as he was told, kept an eye on Hughes for any further instructions, and was glad the running had slowed to a hearty trot.
The cattle were slowing, too, as the head of the heard rounded into a tighter circle, their trot slowing to a walk and then, finally, a stop, since there was nowhere to move, with nearly every available man winding the stampede down.
The threat was over, but not gone, as far as Josiah was concerned.
CHAPTER 27
Evening was setting in under a calm sky. The herd of longhorns had settled into an easy graze, acting as if nothing had spooked them earlier in the day. The cowboys, too, seemed to be as forgetful as the cows. One of them played a harmonica softly, sitting next to the fire. Leathers’s chuck wagon was not far off. A black kettle of beans and bacon was just starting to simmer, overcoming the smell of sweat and fear that had been created by the stampede.
Scrap was talking to a few of the other cowboys, all huddled together, out of earshot.
Josiah had yet to learn the names of the men riding with the drive. There would be time for that, or not, since he and Scrap were only going to be along for a four-day ride. Goliad loomed in the distance, and unlike Scrap, Josiah felt stuck in an uncomfortable spot.
Scrap almost always seemed comfortable and at ease in new situations. Now, with the cowboys, it was like he’d been riding with them all of his life. It was the same as when Scrap was riding at the peak of the stampede—there was no doubt that the boy had skills that went way beyond being a Texas Ranger, and Josiah had not failed to notice, even though he’d known Scrap had his own talents all along.
Josiah sat alone on a boulder, removed from the crew, staring out at the herd, wondering where Miguel was at and what exactly the guitar player was up to. He knew he was going to have to speak to Don Bowman sooner or later and tell the trail boss what he had seen. There was no question his presence, and Scrap’s, had led the rustlers right to the herd. It was not a conversation he was looking forward to. The trail boss had been hesitant to take them on in the first place.
The smell of food in the air made Josiah’s stomach rumble, and he suddenly felt tired and weak. He was in need of a bath and a nice shave. All things of a personal matter had been in short supply over the last few days. Mostly, the time since he’d met Maria Villareal in the cantina was a blur, the events too much to make sense of. Especially after her death, after being run off by Juan Carlos.
There’d been little chance to stop and regroup and get a grip on himself. He felt way off kilter. More so now than in previous days. The lines between Zeb and Josiah were melding together, and he barely recognized each man’s separate motives or desires. Some days he wanted to be neither man, though there was no question that he was anxious to rid himself of Zeb Teter forever.
He was not looking forward to meeting up with Captain McNelly in Goliad, but at least then he’d be riding with the company again. That was a small thing to look forward to, but Josiah was, even though he wasn’t anxious to return to Corpus Christi. What he wanted was to go home to Austin. There was no question that Josiah missed his life there. Not so much the city but those that he cared for. He longed to hear Lyle’s laugh and feel the warmth of his hugs. The thought of Pearl did not lighten his heart, but rather the vision of her, the one stuffed deep in his memory when they had shared their most intimate moment together, along with a collection of the brief moments they had shared before and since, only made him feel even lonelier.
He wondered what had become of Billie Webb in the time he had been gone and if the newspapers had forgotten about him and gone on to another story. Surely, they had. It had been four months since he’d left, a lifetime in the cycle of news.
“Hughes said I should talk to you.”
The words startled Josiah out of his thoughts. He turned to face Don Bowman. His gray hair was even more grizzled than the first time Josiah had seen him, and his blue eyes were hard and serious, like a storm was brewing inside the man’s skull. Dirt was still caked on the trail boss’s forehead, and his clothes were layered with dust and mud from the stampede.
Josiah stood up. “I saw the man who fired down into the herd. I tried to stop him, but I lost him, sir.”
“A Mexican, no doubt.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why would you say that?” Bowman asked. Both of his hands were firmly on his hips. Bowman wore a gun on his right side, a Walker Colt, and a full battery of bullets. The pearl handle on the Colt glimmered in the setting sun.
His shadow fell long behind him, reaching almost back to the fire.
The harmonica player stopped the music, and silence suddenly entered the camp like an entity all its own.
Josiah could feel all of the eyes and attention of the cowboys on him and Bowman. He drew a deep breath. “I recognized the man from Corpus Christi. A man pretending to be a guitar player in a cantina. I cannot say for certain, but I’m almost sure he double-crossed us and is on the side of Cortina. I think he may have killed the barkeep once Cortina attacked the city, preventing me from contacting Austin right away. The barkeep was my messenger.”
It was the first time Josiah had spoken about the death of the barkeep out loud. Agusto was neither friend nor foe, just another man doing his job in service of the state of Texas, no matter how covertly. But the two of them had spent plenty of time together, alone in the cantina, talking, not talking, sharing silence and homesickness for their families. There was no way he could not grieve for the man’s death. He had just chosen not to, had not found the right time, or place, until, perhaps . . . now.
“I saw him again in the saloon in Ingleside,” Josiah continued. “I’m certain he was the man on the crest of the hill. There’s no question he intended to start a stampede, and I think we may have led him to the herd.”
“They would have found the herd anyway. I doubt the theft has much to do with you. But there’s a bunch of madness about. Seems to me those minute groups will kill any Mexican they see. I should have been expecting them Mexicans to take advantage of the start.”
“I hate to say it, but I hope you’re right, Bowman. I surely do.”
“I didn’t think we’d have to worry much about rustlers because this is a smaller drive than what’s coming up. I am at fault here.”
“So you lost cattle?”
“Ninety-seven head. I’ll have to answer for that loss, or get them back.”
Silence fell between the two men for a long minute. Both stared out over the content longhorns.
“I figured that might be the ploy, rustling head at the beginning,” Josiah said.
“I’ve got too few men to spare, the way it is,” Bowman said, “now that we’re under more of a threat than I thought we were. I want you and your man, there, Elliot . . .”
“Sutton. Hank Sutton,” Josiah interjected tersely.
“Whatever his name is. Anyways, I want you and him to go after the thieves. You’re Rangers, after all, it’s your job. And since you seem to know this man who started the stampede, all the better to be rid of you in case he’s following after you like a coyote in wait. I told you from the start I didn’t want any trouble, but it sure looks like you brought it to me and my men here. I’m just glad no one got hurt.”
“Me, too,” Josiah answered. For a brief moment, he thought about protesting. He was tired and worn out. The last thing he wanted to do was hit the trail, tracking rustlers and Miguel. Bu
t he could offer no valid argument against the order. Bowman was right. It was his duty, his job, and more than anything else, going after the rustlers—Miguel—was the right thing to do.
Scrap loaded up a passel of warm biscuits in his saddlebag, then climbed up on Missy and readied himself to go. He had a broad smile on his face as he settled into his saddle. “Well come on, you ole slowpoke,” he said, urging Josiah on.
Leathers handed Josiah a tin of cooling beans and bacon. “This ought to get you through the evening, brother,” the cookie said.
“Thanks, I appreciate it. It’s a little late to hunt down rabbit for stew.”
“Good luck with that in this pitiful land.”
“You don’t like South Texas?”
“I like the green fields of Iowa. Spring stirs the poet in me there. This desolation does little for my constitution except darken my mood,” Leathers said.
“Well, thanks again.” Josiah extended his hand for a shake. “I ’spect we’ll see you farther north.”
“God willing.” Leathers shook Josiah’s hand and smiled as warmly as he could, exposing his mouth full of rotting teeth a little more than normal.
“I suppose.” Josiah retreated, pulled his hand away, walked over to Clipper, and packed away the tin of food. He could smell the beans and still hadn’t eaten, but the prospect of leaving the drive so soon and chasing after a bunch of rustlers had caused him to lose his appetite.
“It’s about gall dern time,” Scrap said. “We barely got any light left at all.”
“The trail isn’t going to be that hard to find,” Josiah snapped back.
And he was right. Once he settled into his own saddle and headed away from the cowboy camp, up over the hill where Miguel had fired the shot from, Josiah picked up a trail of hooves and beaten-down vegetation heading west, back toward Corpus Christi.
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