The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Putting one foot in front of the other, walking into the wind became difficult as the trail he’d come down jutted upward away from the flat ground. He hadn’t noticed the incline coming down it.

  Thunder boomed behind him, over the ocean, and the ground shook angrily, nearly toppling Josiah. He needed a walking stick, a cane of some kind to keep his balance, but there were no sticks lying about, only hollow reeds.

  Struggling, he made it to the top of the outcropping. The rain grew heavier, and it obscured his vision. He’d hoped to see the village of Arroyo on the horizon, but it had been swallowed up by the gray wall of rain and the raging clouds of the storm. He couldn’t see anything. Cold rain peppered his face, and he cowered for a second. But something caught his eye. Movement in the grayness. It only took a blink to realize that what he was looking at was a horse and rider. Heading straight for him, riding hard, like they were on a mission.

  If he saw them, they had seen him.

  There was no place to hide, no trees to shelter him or give him cover, if the rider was one of Cortina’s men. An Anglo standing in the middle of nowhere would be shot outright, no questions asked, especially considering the moment they were standing in. Cortina had to be well aware that the Rangers were looking for him, that they would try to stop the shipment of beeves to Cuba and return the longhorns to their rightful owners. There was no way he couldn’t know that. Cortina was a smart man, smarter than most Texans gave him credit for. He was an old man, bent on taking what he felt was his, borders and governments be damned.

  Josiah pulled his Peacemaker from the holster, readying himself, then headed back down the trail, cutting off from it at the easiest point where he could try and hide himself against the limestone wall. There were no caves, just wind cuts and indentations in the jagged, wet stone, giving him no place to find shelter from the rain, or bullets.

  The temperature of the air dropped with the push of the wind. It was like the storm had sucked all of the heat from the world into the clouds and used it sparingly for the weak streaks of lightning that began to dance over his head. Still, Josiah began to sweat. His heart raced. And he allowed himself to be afraid for a brief moment.

  Pearl’s letter had reassured Josiah of one thing: Lyle was well cared for, loved, and would not be left an orphan if something happened to him. It was a relief, but he had known this anyway. He wouldn’t have ever left Austin again if he hadn’t thought Ofelia would care for the boy if something happened to him. They had an unspoken agreement, a trust between each other, that Josiah had with no one else in the world, and now didn’t expect to have with anyone else anytime soon.

  But Josiah was unwilling to openly surrender if it came to that, if the rider was one of Cortina’s men. He would die fighting. For himself and for Lyle. If word ever got back to the boy about how his father had died, then Josiah wanted Lyle to know that he had faced death straight on—he was no coward, and there was no coward’s blood in Lyle’s veins. If nothing else, Lyle would have that pride to carry on. The boy would never have to question what he was made of, and for some reason the thought of that helped Josiah stand up straighter and forget his pain, as he chambered a cartridge in the Peacemaker and prepared himself to face the rider.

  The horse was black, or at least it looked black from where Josiah stood, poised, the hammer back, his finger on the trigger. Its rider was small in stature, covered with a duster and a hat, but it was hard to make out any features, or whether the rider wore a gun or was carrying one for that matter.

  Josiah’s heart rate had slowed. He had been in this situation before. At this very moment, he did not fear death.

  Another streak of lightning cracked alive over his head, offering the clarity of vision for a breath or two. In the moment when daylight returned, Josiah saw that the rider was not one of Cortina’s men, but a woman.

  It was Francesca, come out to look for him.

  Unfortunately, what follows lightning is most often a clap of loud thunder. There was no exception this time, and the thunder boomed loudly. It was like a bomb had been set off a few inches over Josiah’s head; his eardrums threatened to explode, deafening him forever. If the limestone outcropping had been any higher and more unstable than it was, then an avalanche of rocks and boulders could have been released, trapping or killing Josiah. But as it was, he was safe.

  Francesca, on the other hand, had not been prepared for the loud clap of thunder. Either she didn’t have a tight hold on the horse’s reins or they had slipped out of her hands. The black horse spooked and reared furiously, tossing Francesca to the ground, in a blurry, sudden thrust and then running off—leaving her scream behind as she crashed to the ground, disappearing from Josiah’s sight.

  CHAPTER 15

  Francesca lay on the wet, swampy ground in an unmoving heap. Her eyes were closed tightly; a thin line of blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth. Josiah ran faster than he thought he was able, reaching her side before another finger of lightning streaked over their heads. Thunder erupted again, shaking his whole body from head to toe.

  “Francesca,” he yelled, bending down to her side, shielding her from the rain as much as he could with his body. “Are you all right?”

  He could see that she was still breathing and instantly felt her wrist for a pulse. A strong rhythm met his touch, and that allowed Josiah a moment of relief. He knew better than to move her, at least for the moment. She might have broken bones, a broken back or neck, it was hard to tell, and he was no doctor or expert on the human body.

  Francesca’s deep brown eyes flickered open. “I knew I’d find you,” she said. Her voice was weak, and she tried to force a smile, but pain prevented her from completing the effort.

  “It had to be you.” It was a whisper. Josiah wasn’t sure she’d heard him. He wasn’t sure if he’d wanted her to. “Where do you hurt?”

  “My back. I think I will be all right. The fall just knocked the air from my lungs.” She flexed her fingers and shook both of her feet alive.

  The rain fell in buckets. They were both drenched, and there was no sign of Francesca’s black filly. The horse had completely disappeared in the enveloping grayness.

  “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  Francesca nodded yes. “I was worried about you.”

  “You shouldn’t have come looking for me. I would’ve come back.”

  “Juan Carlos is out searching for you, and Papa, too. It is not safe for you to be alone with Cortina’s men all around. They will gut you like a stray cat for nothing but the pleasure of it. The Apache, too. They lurk in the shadows, crossing the border to compete with Cortina and steal the vacas, too. I could not bear to think of such a thing, of something happening to you. Juan Carlos was worried, too. I could see it on his face, but he did not speak of it, just vanished, in search of you.”

  “I know.”

  Francesca’s eyes were fully open, staring up at him. Her hat had been tied securely under her chin but had fallen off her head, softening the landing. Rain splattered at her forehead, and she blinked to keep her vision clear from the downpour.

  “Do you think you can sit up?” Josiah asked.

  “I will try.” With a deep heave, Francesca drew in a breath and struggled to lift herself up.

  The wind whipped around them, and the sky overhead was black as a burnt stew, bubbling, boiling, threatening to grow worse instead of better. There was no end in sight to the storm clouds. Daylight was a memory, the afternoon taken away by some unseen force, the battle against darkness undefended. If this was a war, all hope was lost.

  “There’s a bit of cover to be had alongside the rock.” Josiah flicked his head behind him, toward the direction he had come from. “Can you walk?”

  Francesca sat up, but her face was pale, and there was no question that she was fighting off some pain. She shook her head no just as another blast of thunder exploded over them. Th
ey both drew back, startled by the loud crash.

  Rain drove harder against Josiah’s face, stinging the buckshot wound. It felt like he was being shot again. He could barely see two feet in front of his nose.

  Without a second’s hesitation, he scooped up Francesca, picked her up without warning or asking permission, and hurried toward the limestone wall. Josiah ignored the pain, the threat that he might undo all of the healing that had taken place in his shoulder.

  He laid Francesca down as gently as he could on the soft, soggy ground.

  A thin limestone shelf jutted out above them about six inches, just enough to deter water onto the ground around them and down an easy slope. The wind and rain were coming from the opposite direction—at the moment—protecting them, to a small degree, from the harshest thrust of the downpour.

  Francesca sat up and offered her duster to Josiah. He took it and pulled the coat over them, giving them even more shelter to huddle in.

  The rain had washed the blood from Francesca’s mouth, but her lip still looked slightly swollen. She must have bitten or pinched it in the fall.

  Josiah pulled the duster tighter, bringing them closer together than they already were. “Are you all right?”

  “I am better now.”

  “I don’t want to be too bold.”

  “It is better to be here than standing out in the storm.” Francesca smiled fully, but briefly, then looked away from Josiah. “Why did you leave? Come out into this tormenta?”

  He could feel the heat of her body, and he was covered in the smell of her with her coat. She was the only woman in the world he cared about at the moment. “I needed some time to think. I just needed to be away from everyone. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you I was leaving.” His voice wavered. What he’d said was the truth, but not all of it. He never was good at lying. He didn’t want to share with her the emotion he’d felt from reading Pearl’s letter.

  Francesca stared up at him, her brown eyes wide open, platters of warmth searching his face for more than he was willing to offer. “Did I do something to offend you?”

  Thunder boomed loudly overhead, and Josiah had to wait to answer. A curtain of sadness had dropped over Francesca’s face as she stared up to him expectantly.

  “No, no, not at all. How could you think of such a thing?”

  Francesca continued to look into Josiah’s eyes, and he was so transfixed he couldn’t look away. Without thinking of what he was doing, he leaned in, hesitated, then let his lips touch hers, waiting for her to pull away. She didn’t. She met his lips with warmth and desire.

  Josiah was glad for the welcome, and lost himself in the moment, his need and desire growing, as he pressed forward, matching her desire heartbeat for heartbeat.

  He wasn’t surprised, though, when Francesca pulled away, and cupped his face in her hands. “I am no whore like Fat Susie,” she said. Her eyes had hardened, grown serious from the duskiness of the moment before.

  “Suzanne del Toro was no whore.”

  Francesca exhaled softly, and nodded. “I am sure she wasn’t. Not with you. I can understand that. I just wanted you to know that. I may be Papa’s barmaid, but I do not offer myself easily to any man.”

  “I know that. I know.”

  The rain continued to beat at the duster, and the heat and humidity grew underneath it, matched with the rising temperature of both of their clothed bodies.

  Without saying another word, Francesca leaned back in and kissed Josiah, deeply and passionately. The world ceased to exist. Any pain that either of them felt was washed away by the medicine of attraction and touch.

  It didn’t matter that they were caught in the storm, that either of them was less than perfect in health. And the demands of society were far away, lost in a world of manners and expectations. Too far to judge, or care about their age difference, or the colors of their skin, or their heritage. All that mattered was that they had found each other at the moment and chosen to be together in a way that only mattered to them.

  Josiah allowed his hand to drift down the side of Francesca’s neck, not stopping until he reached the top button of her blouse.

  With a flick of his thumb, he popped the button open, followed quickly, but not overly eagerly, by the next one, allowing the material to fall away. When he cupped her breast in his hand, he kissed her more deeply, and in return, Francesca allowed a gentle moan to escape her lips. She arched her back slightly.

  Any thought of right or wrong was lost now. Neither of them hesitated, well aware of the ground underneath them and the storm overhead. Still, they managed to touch, kiss, and arouse each other in a respectful, but needful, way. They used their clothes as a quickly made bed, peeling them off while kissing, while tugging at each piece, never losing touch, never hesitating or giving each other the impression that they wanted to stop. Nature had taken over, put them in a private storm of their own. It would only pass as it should, whether violently or with a whimper was yet to be seen.

  Josiah thought he was lost in a dream and pushed away any thought of the moments before, the letter from Pearl, the reason why he had fled the cantina in the first place. The past had ceased to exist the moment he recognized Francesca on her horse, knowing only that she had come to look for him.

  “Te he querido desde que puse los ojos en usted,” Francesca said. Her breathing increased rapidly as they touched, fully naked, body to body, for the first time. “I have wanted you since I first laid eyes on you.”

  Josiah nuzzled her neck hungrily, touched her wetness, felt her body rise to meet him, then joined her, and lost himself in the rhythm of the storm and passion as they became one.

  CHAPTER 16

  Just as quickly as it had appeared, the storm pushed east, leaving only remnants of thin, gray clouds in its wake. Heat and humidity returned as the day dimmed, promising to subside, if only slightly, once night truly arrived.

  Summer nights after a storm could be consumptive—Josiah wondered, sometimes, how Captain McNelly could breathe. The ground was muddy and soft, and there was a clean smell to the heavy air, like the entire world had been cleansed, ready for a fresh start.

  He hoisted Francesca up on the saddle of the black filly, who had faithfully returned after the thunder passed, then Josiah climbed up and settled comfortably behind her. “Are you ready to go home?” he asked.

  “Sí, if we must. Papa will be worried.” She settled her head against his chest.

  “Yes, I suppose he will be.” Josiah took the horse’s reins into his hands, and urged it to get a move on. He didn’t look back, didn’t feel bad about moving on, though, in more comfortable circumstances, he would’ve like to have stayed longer.

  He could still taste Francesca’s desire on his lips, smell her muskiness. It was sweet like nectar, making him want more of whatever she had, but he knew that was impossible, at least at the moment.

  “Is something the matter?” Francesca asked.

  Josiah kept the horse at an easy gait. The ground was flat, the incline down to the swampy reeds and inlets behind them. “No, it’s just . . .”

  “Are you having regrets?”

  “No. How could I? It’s just that I’m uneasy about facing Juan Carlos. He’s very wise and will know something happened between us just by looking.”

  “He is your friend, he should be happy for you.”

  “Remember, I told you of a woman waiting for me back in Austin?”

  “Sí, the young widow. The daughter of your captain.”

  Josiah could only see the side of Francesca’s face, could not see directly into her eyes, but when she nodded gently, he knew she understood.

  “Juan Carlos,” Francesca said, “is this woman’s uncle. Or half uncle, as you say, since his brother was Anglo and he is Mexican.”

  “He is.”

  “You love her? Is that why you are tense now?”
/>   “Maybe we should’ve had this discussion an hour ago.”

  “I am not looking for a husband, Josiah Wolfe. What happened happened only because we wanted it to. We are hundreds of miles away from Austin, and you will leave soon. There are no complications to worry about. This woman will wait, and surely understand that your time away is your own.”

  Josiah sighed. “It’s not that simple. I haven’t told you everything. Pearl has decided that our courting is over with, that it won’t work. My life and her father’s are too much alike, the time apart too much, the distance too far.”

  “You like the same kind of women as her father, as well.” There was no anger in Francesca’s voice; she said it almost like she was joking with him, ribbing him about sleeping with Mexican women. She was unflappable, didn’t seem invested in any deep emotion or attachment, which surprised Josiah.

  “I suppose you’re right. It’s probably for the best anyway,” he said.

  “You have nothing to worry about with Juan Carlos. I will make myself scarce on our return.”

  Josiah scooted up tighter to her, pressed himself against her. “I’d rather you not.”

  “Make up your mind, Josiah Wolfe.”

  He smiled, then let it fade away. “I want to keep Juan Carlos as a friend. I’ll tell him about Pearl at the right time. He’ll understand, I’m sure of it.”

  “But you were angry about this courtship ending? You do love her.”

  Josiah shrugged his shoulders. “When I read the letter, yes, I was angry. That’s why I left. I needed some time to work things out in my head. I cared about Pearl. I still do. I loved Lily. I know that much. I always will. Lily is dead, though, and I have to accept that I might never love like that again. There are worse things.”

  “You had the letter with you when you arrived in Arroyo?”

  “The mail rider came just as Scrap and I were leaving camp.”

  Francesca grew quiet and pressed harder against Josiah. “I like how you show love.” There was a smile in her voice.