“Hector Morales is dead. Juan Cortina had his tongue cut out for betraying him to the Rangers.” The Mexican turned to face Josiah then, his eyes hard, the muscle under his lip trembling slightly, like he was about to say something else, or erupt in anger.
Josiah took a deep breath, let his hand slip down to his Peacemaker—but he was too slow.
The other Mexican pushed the stool back with a jump, pulling his gun at the same time, swirling around to face Scrap.
Scrap didn’t hesitate, didn’t blink. Josiah had no time to issue commands, to tell the boy what to do. Thankfully, he didn’t have to.
In half a breath, Scrap had pulled his Colt Army .45 from his holster and fired the first round, beating the Mexican on the draw.
The echo of the shot sounded like a cannon going off right behind Josiah’s ear. He saw the muzzle flash in the mirror, then heard the bullet rip into flesh and shatter bone as it struck the Mexican in the forehead, sending him spiraling back toward the bar. Blood and cartilage exploded outward, a surprise, but so certain and sudden that the man didn’t have the life in him to scream out in pain. Death came quickly, in a sudden flinch, at the hand of a boy with no patience or trust for Mexicans with guns.
To make certain that his aim was on target, Scrap pulled the trigger again, catching the man just under the chin as he fell backward. The Mexican crashed to the floor in a lifeless heap as his own blood rained down on him.
The other man, the one next to Josiah, was not afraid, showed no fear. His hands were out of sight. Time ticked in slow breaths, quickening heartbeats, and eyelids fighting not to blink. The smell of gunpowder overtook every other smell, even conquering the metallic smell of blood.
The outside world had ceased to exist for the three living men inside the cantina.
Josiah stumbled away from the Mexican, out of range of his hands if he chose to go for his knife, but still close enough to see his rage.
Scrap’s reflection flinched in the mirror, his attention suddenly drawn away from Josiah and the Mexican, by something near the stove. A shadow of movement caught his eye.
Josiah had not seen it before now, but there was a dark alcove, a pantry to serve the kitchen, and presumably store beer kegs, too, just off to the left of the stove. It would make sense that there was a door there, leading in and out to an alleyway.
The barkeep appeared, a silhouette of a person holding a shotgun, aimed directly at Josiah and the Mexican. The size and shape of the man was inconsequential; his intention was expressed vividly by the direction of the shotgun’s barrel.
It was a lot to take in in such a short amount of time. The Mexican had not lost focus, had not been distracted. In another blink of an eye, he had both guns out of his holster, trained on Josiah.
Josiah was a finger-press away from dying. The Mexican’s guns were aimed straight at his chest.
Scrap yelled, “Watch out behind you, Wolfe!”
Josiah had no time to react to Scrap’s warning. A flash of bright white light, and the loudest explosion Josiah had heard since returning from the war, erupted just out of sight.
It was a gunshot so close to his ear that he couldn’t hear anything but the constant reverberation of the blast. He blinked, and felt the first pellet of buckshot pierce his skin. It skidded across his cheek, just under his eye, slicing his skin, and freeing his blood from his flesh. Pain followed, ripping across his face like someone had smashed him into a wall of shattered glass.
Josiah’s other eye was wide open—open enough to see the Mexican’s face change its expression, writhe in pain, as he dropped his guns and bright red splotches appeared in his throat, his chest, and his forehead, like his partner’s. Scrap had unloaded his remaining four shots into the man’s body.
The Mexican had got a shot off before dropping the guns.
A bullet glanced across Josiah’s shoulder, sending him spinning backward into a graceless dance, peppered as well from the barkeep’s shotgun blast.
The floor rose up to meet him, offering nothing but unforgiving stone to greet his falling body.
There was no pain, no feeling in his body as he came to rest on the floor. His mouth filled up with blood, and he could not speak. His vision was blurry, and darkness pushed in from all corners of his sight, aided by the naturally dark surroundings of the cantina.
Josiah heard footsteps, and expected to see Scrap standing over him, but that is not what he saw.
Instead a young Mexican woman hovered over his face, a look of horror and concern set soberly in her deep brown eyes. “Lo siento, señor. Lo siento.”
Josiah knew enough Spanish to know that the woman was saying she was sorry. But he didn’t know what for.
The light was fading, and she spoke more words as she squatted down, her face close to his, trying to soothe him, but her words didn’t matter anymore.
He was slipping away, more certain than at any other time in his life that he was a dead man, that this was the end of his ride, lost in an unknown cantina hundreds of miles away from home, at the hands of a stranger. His duty to the Rangers, to his son, to Pearl, would forever go unfulfilled.
For some reason, he wasn’t surprised.
CHAPTER 6
A candle burned beside the bed. Night had fallen as Josiah struggled to open his eyes. The left side of his face was numb, covered with a large cloth bandage. Another bandage was attached to the top of his shoulder, but there was little pain there. Surprisingly, he felt little pain anywhere.
He took a deep breath as he gained the realization that he was still alive, not dead. He had no idea where he was, what had happened after he had been shot, or how much time had passed. His mouth was dry and he felt weak, hungry, and thirsty. But more than anything, he needed to pee.
Josiah struggled to sit up, and found that he was weaker than he’d thought he was. He fell back down on the thin mattress.
“Hold on there, Wolfe.” Scrap appeared out of the dark corner.
Focusing, Josiah saw a chair there and figured Scrap had taken up guard, watching over him. The thought of it made him comfortable, and he instantly relaxed.
“That you, Elliot?” Josiah asked, his voice low and gravelly.
“Who else you think it is? St. Peter?”
“Might be.”
“Hardly.” Scrap was at his side, offering a glass of water. “You’re a lucky man, Wolfe. A few inches to the left, and that girl’s mistake would have found your face full on.”
Josiah took the water and drank it down hungrily. “Feels that way as it is.” He had been wounded in duty before, stabbed in the Lost Valley fight by a Kiowa Indian. That gash took a long time to heal. The scar still itched sometimes, hurt down to the bone at the oddest times, as if to remind him that he was not immortal. Scrap was there then, too. That wound had been his fault, to a degree, moved by anger, but Josiah didn’t hold a grudge. Scrap had made up for his impetuous act more than once since. There was no one to blame this time around—though Josiah had no idea what Scrap meant about a girl making a mistake.
Scrap stood over Josiah, eyeing him carefully. “You ought to be fine in a day or so. Well enough to ride back to camp. You just need to get your strength back after losin’ as much blood as you did.”
Josiah handed the glass back to Scrap.
“More?” Scrap asked.
Josiah nodded yes. He felt the bandage on his shoulder, pushed on it, felt a slight tremor of pain work its way down his arm.
“A good graze,” Scrap said. “The buckshot on the side of your face is more worrisome than that if infection sets in.”
Josiah nodded. He knew the consequences of infection, of outside poison coursing its way through your insides. He’d seen men shot in the war, grazed, dying a slow, fever-filled, miserable death. A bullet square between the eyes was a surer gift. Take the suffering out of the equation. But that didn’t look to
be his luck.
“What of the two Mexicans?” Josiah asked.
“I killed ’em both, through and through.”
“Too bad. They might’ve been able to tell us something about Cortina.” He took another deep drink of water, then struggled to sit up. He really had to pee.
“It was them or you,” Scrap said.
Josiah nodded to the bowl that sat on a table across the room. “I’ve got to relieve myself.”
Scrap fetched the bowl, handed it to Josiah, then turned away.
Only a thin blanket covered him, and until that moment, Josiah hadn’t realized that he was naked as the day he was born underneath it. He quickly did his business, glad his functions still worked. Scrap took the pan, disappeared out the door, then quickly returned without it.
“I think you’ll be all right here, Wolfe.”
“What do you mean? What do you think you’re planning?”
“There was a third man. They all were tied together with Cortina and this big sale to Cuba somehow. I’m going after him. He can’t be far,” Scrap said.
Josiah started to protest, felt the responsibility of his rank and general concern rising to the forefront of his mind, but he allowed it to slip back, stop. “You think you’re up to that?”
“What, alone?”
Josiah nodded.
Scrap shrugged. “Don’t look like I got much choice. It’s either that, or stay here with you for a day or so, or go back to the camp to tell McNelly what’s happened. Neither way solves our duty. Besides, I got skills on the trail. I know how to track a man as good as you.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t.”
“Then what are you sayin’?”
“I’d just as soon go with you as stay here,” Josiah said. “The barkeep shot me if I remember right.”
Scrap shook his head no. “The cantina owner’s daughter. She was trying to save you, but she ain’t much of a shot. They was outside butcherin’ a goat when she heard the ruckus and came in to investigate. You’ll be safe here. These folks been kind to you and ain’t no supporters of Cortina.”
“The girl I saw before I blacked out?”
“Yup. This is their house. She feels awful, especially now they know we’re Rangers.”
“You trust a pair of Mexicans enough to tell them we’re Rangers? We were supposed to use our spy names.”
“That went out the window once’t you got shot. Besides, you know I ain’t no good at bein’ anything other than myself.”
“And you’re comfortable enough to just leave me here?”
“Funny, ain’t it?”
“You are a curious boy, Scrap Elliot,” Josiah said. “A real curious boy.”
“Well, I suppose you could think worse of me, but I learned a few things on my own when I was in Corpus a while back. I may not like some Mexicans, but I had to learn there’s some good ones, or I woulda been out on a limb most of the time. These two are decent sorts. They gave me information about where to find the third man.”
“And you believed them?”
“They believed me when I told ’em I’d come back and kill them both if it was a lie. I ain’t got no restrictions to killin’ a woman if she’s a liar. Besides, you’re not that down and out. Your gun’s under the mattress, both your arms work, and your legs, too. You can take care of yourself while I track down the third man.”
The candle flickered, swaying on an unseen draft, causing the light to become brighter for just a second. Josiah could see Scrap clearly. He was dressed and ready to ride, his gun belt stocked with bullets, his duster sitting on the chair waiting, and his Colt ready in his holster. Scrap’s face, so often boyish and wide-eyed, looked hard and chiseled in the dark, his eyes set on a distant horizon that bore no pleasure, offering only the threat of certain danger and the pain of an undeclared war. Somehow, somewhere, and in some time, Scrap Elliot had become a fine soldier, a warrior. But that didn’t mean the boy didn’t have doubts or fears.
Every man did, Josiah thought, every man did. “Go on then,” he said. “You’re right. I can look after myself.”
“I never asked your permission, Wolfe. I know you’re my sergeant and all, but I figured with you down on your back, I had to make my decisions.”
“Be safe,” Josiah said. “I’ll be looking forward to your return.”
Scrap nodded, spun around, grabbed up his duster, and disappeared through the door, rushing out to meet the darkness that awaited him, eagerly and with anticipation.
CHAPTER 7
Josiah nodded off after Scrap left the room, only to be awakened some time later by the comforting smell of food. The curtains were pulled closed on the only window in the room, and no light burned around the edges, signaling that morning had not come. Darkness of night still prevailed. The same candle burned weakly; it was about half the size it had been when Scrap left the room.
A sudden, unmistakable burst of pain erupted on the side of Josiah’s face, reminding him that he had been shot, had caught some buckshot from an uncertain blast of a scattergun. His vision widened, and instinctively he reached to his cheek to soothe the pain he felt.
A warm hand intercepted his. “No, no, señor, please, you’ll hurt yourself.” It was a soft female voice.
Josiah pulled his hand away and angled his face upward, catching the first sight of the girl he assumed had shot him by mistake. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her in the cantina. There was no way to tell then if the shooter had been a man or a woman; everything had happened so quickly.
Even now he could not see the girl clearly. The room was full of shadows, and his movement reaching for the pain had caused the candle to dance, making the light even more unstable. Still, the girl was older than he’d expected. She was a young woman, maybe Scrap’s age, in her early twenties, maybe older, not really a girl at all. She had brown skin, saucer plate brown eyes, and neatly combed black hair swept back out of her face, exposing a smooth canvas of concern and caring.
“I am so sorry, Señor Wolfe. I did not mean to harm you. And now you are to be scarred from my carelessness. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I might be dead if you hadn’t walked in when you did.”
The girl shook her head no. “Señor Elliot put an end to the attack. I am sure he would have conquered the gringos without my interference. You, too, from what I understand, are quite capable of protecting yourself.” She pulled back then, standing at the side of his bed nervously.
“Call me Josiah.” He took a deep breath at the full sight of the girl. She wore a loose-fitting blouse over a long skirt, but even in the faded light, it was easy to see that she was shapely, and her face sweet, like a Spanish angel painted on the ceilings of some of the missions Josiah had been in.
“But, Señor . . .”
“. . . I insist.”
“As you wish.”
“What is your name?”
“Francesca. Francesca Soto.”
“That’s a fine name.”
Silence lingered between them for a long moment. Francesca’s English was easy to understand, almost like it was her true language, even though there was still a hint of Mexican from her tongue. It must have been one of the reasons why Scrap was so comfortable in leaving him, that and the need to catch up with the third man.
“Sí, it is my mother’s name. She died when I was born. It is all I have of her.” A veil of sadness fell over Francesca’s face, then disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself.
Grief was unmistakable to Josiah, his own losses had been deep, too. He recognized it when he saw it. He shifted in the bed, suddenly uncomfortable, remembering that he was naked underneath the light blanket that covered him. And the smell of the food tempted him, drew him up and away from his modesty. Desire met with weakness.
“I have tamales in the olla, Josiah. I take it you like them?”
Josiah nodded yes as his stomach rumbled.
Francesca smiled for the first time. The brightness of her joy and relief crossed her face like a child welcomed into a lap. She opened the olla, a ceramic pot that looked like it was as old as time itself, if not older, brown and unglazed, dinged from years of daily use, and a thin cloud of steam spiraled upward in the air. She quickly dished out three tamales, still in the husks, and handed a plate to Josiah.
He had pulled himself up and propped himself against the cool adobe wall with a thin feather pillow, making sure the blanket was securely tucked at his waist. It was uncomfortable, had hurt to move so quickly, annoying his new wounds, and reminding his old ones that they still existed. He took the plate and immediately began to pull off the husks.
The masa melted in his mouth at the first bite, with strings of tender pork following. He ate all three before he stopped to breathe, to take a drink of water from a glass Francesca had poured and placed on the table next to the bed.
“These are some of the best tamales I’ve ever had,” Josiah said. “But I suppose I shouldn’t say that. I might offend Ofelia.”
Francesca stood at the side of the bed, close enough to get Josiah anything he might need, but far enough away so there was a still a respectable distance between them. “Who is Ofelia?” There was no expression on her face or inflection in her voice other than curiosity.
“It’s hard to explain. She was the wet nurse for my son, but she has stayed on with me. Moved from our home to Austin.”
“What became of your wife, if I am not being disrespectful?”
There was a time when it was difficult for Josiah to even mention Lily’s name aloud—as it was now, for some reason. Her death had rocked him to the core, brought him to his knees, only to be brought back to his feet by the fact that he had a newborn son to care for.
“She died in childbirth,” Josiah whispered.
Francesca’s face twisted then, and she looked away. “Lo siento,” she said, then made a sign of the cross from the top of her forehead to her chest. “It must be difficult. My papa has been a very lonely man since the death of my mother. It is his cantina, and the visitors that come along pull him from the bed every day. We both feel like half of us is missing, even though Papa says I am a true reflection of my mother. He misses her less when he sees me.”
The Gila Wars Page 5
