The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  It didn’t take long for Arroyo to come into sight, even at the slowness of the horse’s gait, or Josiah’s desire to prolong saying good-bye to Francesca for as long as possible.

  The only sign left of the storm was deposited on the soggy ground in puddles and fallen limbs from the occasional mesquite tree. Night was still several hours away, allowing Josiah to see ahead of him clearly.

  There was a horse tied up in front of the cantina. A familiar horse. A blue roan mare. Scrap had returned.

  * * *

  The sconces on the wall of the cantina burned brightly. The comfortable aroma of slow-cooking meat filled the air, mixing with the bitter-smelling yeast of the ever-present beer. It looked like Adolfo expected business to be brisker than it had been in previous days. Or maybe it was just the first time that Josiah was aware enough, and awake enough, to notice the man’s daily routine, and its aftereffects.

  Scrap was sitting at the bar, smoking a quirlie. “I heard you’d done up and disappeared. Got everybody around here all riled up about your safety.” He took a long drag on the cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs for an even longer second, then exhaled with an exaggerated burst from his lips. “I figured you could take care of yourself. I told that old Mexican that you’d show up sooner or later—and I was right.”

  Josiah had stopped just inside the door of the cantina. Francesca had gone around to the back entrance with barely a fleeting embrace. They had said their good-byes with a rub and peck before getting off the filly.

  There was no one else in the bar except a small Mexican man stuffed into the corner, sitting on the edge of a rickety chair, his head down, his hands bound tightly behind his back with a thick rope. The man didn’t look up when Scrap spoke. He didn’t even look alive. His torn shirt was splattered with blood, but his chest was heaving, so there was no concern that he was dead.

  “I appreciate your concern,” Josiah said.

  “You’re feelin’ better, I take it?”

  “Better than I thought I would. I see you made a new friend.” Josiah walked the rest of the way inside the cantina and made his way uneasily to Scrap’s side.

  “He calls himself Incuzicon Garcia or some such name. Ain’t never heard tell of a name like that. Have you, Wolfe? You’d think all of these durned Mexican’s would name themselves somethin’ respectful, easy to say.”

  “Like Robert?” Josiah asked, sitting down on the stool next to Scrap, eyeing him like he was a mad dog tethered at the barn.

  “Exactly. Like Robert.”

  “Incosnasción,” the Mexican whispered through gritted teeth. His head still down, staring at the floor. “It is In-cosnas-ción.”

  “Shut the hell up, no one asked you nothin’,” Scrap said over his shoulder, a snarl on his face.

  “You always were good at making new friends,” Josiah said.

  “That’s gonna be some scar on your face. You might scare some people off. We’d be even then.”

  “If I’m lucky. Where’d you find your friend?”

  “He ain’t my friend. He’s my damn prisoner, thank you very much. I took him on my own, and I expect to hand him over to Captain McNelly just the same way. He’s the third man supposed to join up here and go on to fight with Cortina, if’n it comes to that.”

  Josiah recoiled slightly, threw his hands up palms out. “Whatever you say, Scrap. I would’ve gone after him with you, but I wasn’t able. Looks like you did fine without me.”

  Adolfo walked in the back door, the same one Francesca had entered when she’d shot Josiah. He was a carrying a bucket of beer. He looked up and instantly made eye contact with Josiah. “It is good to see you again, señor. I was worried about you in the storm. It was a hard one. I feared a tornado, but thankfully, none came. Just your friend, here.”

  Scrap glared at Adolfo, just as he had Garcia in the corner. There was no mistaking the implication in Adolfo’s voice: Scrap had brought as much trouble into the cantina as a storm would have, maybe more.

  “Francesca found me,” Josiah said.

  “I heard.” Adolfo looked away and poured the bucket of beer into a ceramic urn under the counter of the bar. “There are all kinds of bad creatures out in the world, Ranger Wolfe. Coyote. Serpienete, um, rattlesnake. Gilas. All will do you harm, are at war with you whether you know it or not. Cortina’s men, or the Apache, if they are about, are your enemies, too. But you already know that.” He hesitated before going on, looked to the open door. “Juan Carlos has yet to return, but he knows this land better than I do. He will be fine, I am sure of it. He could be fifty miles from here by now for all I know.”

  Josiah nodded. “Sometimes, I think he was born from the land instead of from a human. His wisdom is deep.”

  Adolfo’s face grew tight. “Never forget what I have told you. Enemies under your feet. They will attack when you least expect it.” He glanced over at the prisoner, sat the empty bucket down, then turned and walked out the door.

  “I think he just threatened you,” Scrap said.

  “I don’t think so. I think he was warning me to look out for myself, not to walk off again into a land that is alien to me.”

  “If you say so. You got a bad way about makin’ friends yourself.”

  Before Josiah could respond, the Mexican looked up and said, “You are both demonios. Cortina will fillet you both, and hand your meat over to los buitres, the vultures, free of charge. I will do it myself if I am able. I swear to Dios, I will.” After that, he spewed a few more words in Spanish that Josiah didn’t understand or have anyone to translate for him. He knew he and Scrap had just been cursed; there was no mistaking that.

  Scrap jumped backward, causing the stool to tumble over and bounce off the floor. The loudness and suddenness of his movement, and the crash, were jolting, as if thunder had exploded inside the room.

  In a swift, fluid, motion, he flicked the quirlie at the Mexican, surprising him, not giving him enough time to react. The cigarette hit Garcia square in the middle of his forehead. An explosion of orange sparks filled the dim room, followed by a startled scream from the man.

  Josiah stood up, but Scrap had already reached the prisoner, and without the offer of a warning, or any words, he punched the man in the jaw as hard as he could.

  Spit and blood spewed out of Garcia’s mouth, followed by another scream, this one more like a yelp. He cowered from Scrap as best he could, but there was nowhere to go—he was butted up into the corner with nowhere to escape to.

  “I said shut the hell up, you greaser. I’ll slit your throat right here and now, you threaten us again. You hear me?” Scrap reared back, readying another punch.

  Josiah caught his arm before it flew forward. “Stop!”

  There was rage in Scrap’s eyes, and for a quick second, there was a look on his face like he was considering disobeying Josiah’s order. But, with a deep breath, Scrap relented, jerking away from Josiah’s grasp.

  “Now, go sit down and get hold of yourself, Elliot. You’ll not be this man’s judge and jury. You’ll see him to Captain McNelly safe and sound, alive and in one piece, just like you said.”

  Scrap’s lip trembled, like he really wanted to lash out at Josiah. But he didn’t. He turned away silently, his head down, his jaw clenched, his shoulders slumped suddenly in defeat.

  The Mexican, Garcia, sat up, and with an amazing amount of accuracy, hocked a healthy stream of bloody spit from his mouth, catching the back of Scrap’s boot as he walked away.

  CHAPTER 17

  Josiah stood his ground, not letting Scrap near Garcia. “If I have to order you outside, Elliot, I will. This is Ranger business no matter who brought this man in, do you understand?”

  “If you say so.” Scrap was on the other side of the room, back over by the bar.

  “I say so.”

  Adolfo returned almost immediately, his hands empty but eyes foc
used under the bar. Most likely there was a shotgun hidden away there for troubling times. A shotgun that Francesca was familiar, and handy, with. “Is everything all right in here?”

  “Yes,” Josiah answered. “Just a little misunderstanding.”

  “We’ll be leaving shortly,” Scrap said.

  A curious look crossed Adolfo’s weathered face, quickly followed by a wash of disappointment. “Is Ranger Wolfe ready to travel?”

  Scrap pulled out a bag of tobacco from his shirt pocket and began to roll another quirlie. “He looks fit enough to me to make it back to Ranger camp. No use stayin’ in this hellhole a minute longer than need be, the way I see it.”

  Adolfo flinched, tried to ignore Scrap’s insult, then stared expectantly at Josiah.

  “We need to get Garcia back there as soon as possible,” Josiah said. “Elliot’s right. There’s no quick way to get word to Captain McNelly. We have to leave.”

  “I see,” Adolfo said. “See that there is no more blood spilled here. I do not need the world to think that any Anglo can just walk in and kill two Mexicans one day and whip another one a few days later. I plan to be here after this war with Cortina ends. I plan to be here until the day I die.”

  “Of course,” Josiah said. “Garcia will not be harmed. You have my word.”

  “But do I have his?” Adolfo asked, nodding toward Scrap.

  “Leave him to me,” Josiah answered.

  Scrap didn’t pay either man any direct attention. He lit the thin cigarette and cast a sideways glance to Josiah with a smirk on his face, then looked into the mirror that reflected the open door. “Daylight’s burnin’. We ride now or we tie up the greaser and find a hole to throw him into. What say you, Wolfe?”

  “I said we were leaving.”

  “You don’t look to be in a big hurry.”

  “I’m not letting you escort this man back by yourself. One of you won’t make it alive.”

  “Says you.”

  “Says me. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Scrap exhaled, and for a brief moment it looked like his entire head had disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  There was very little to pack up, but Josiah returned to the room he’d recuperated in to make sure that there was nothing left behind.

  Scrap had been right. Daylight was burning. Dusk was coming on fast, the last of the afternoon light soft and golden. The storm was a memory. Puddles had soaked into the thirsty, arid ground as quickly as they had formed, leaving nothing much behind but an offering of mud and an inch of brown water, if that, in the indentations.

  The efforts of the day had drained Josiah of his reserve of energy and the compulsion to make a long journey on horseback—still, he felt compelled, duty-bound, to return to the Ranger camp as quickly as possible.

  His injuries were not fully healed. Hardly. The scabs on his face were still tender, had barely begun to fully form and come to an itch. And the cauterized wound threatened constantly to break free and open up. The burn had been deep and strong, and it had held the skin closed, clearing out the infection in one fell swoop. But his resistance to returning to camp was deeper in his soul, beyond physical capability and the need to do his job. He wasn’t sure that he was ready to leave Francesca yet. He had hoped for another night with her, in a proper bed, their time together adventurous and more comfortable. But that was not to be.

  Josiah turned when he heard footsteps behind him. Francesca faced him, her expression stoic, her shoulders stiff and thrust as far back as they could go.

  In the fading light of the day Francesca looked nearly angelic, only adding to the regret that he already felt.

  “So it is true,” she said. “You are leaving now?”

  Three feet separated them as they stood at the end of the bed where Josiah had regained his strength.

  “Yes, it’s true. We need to leave now and get Garcia back to camp.”

  “Another day will make such a big difference?”

  “It might. I believe Garcia has information that will be helpful to Captain McNelly as he makes his plans. The steamer that awaits will be expecting the shipment of rustled cattle to arrive at a predetermined time and place. If we can figure out when and where that is, then we can stop the shipment. Maybe put an end to Cortina’s operation once and for all. That would make life better here, would it not?”

  “There will be something else, or someone else, to make it miserable. It is the way of things in this land. A person. A drought. A great storm. A broken heart,” Francesca said.

  Josiah stepped back unconsciously. “I’m sorry.”

  Francesca took a deep breath, then forced a smile. “My heart is fine. It is only tied in knots because I had hoped to get to know you better. But that is not to be. Will you come back?”

  “If I can, I’d like to, but . . .”

  “There is always a but, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  “None of us do,” Francesca said. She stepped forward, never breaking eye contact with Josiah, and slid her arms around his waist. “You are a good man, Josiah Wolfe. I am glad you came here, though I am sorry you will carry scars from the visit for the rest of your life.” She reached up and caressed his face gently.

  Josiah didn’t move, didn’t draw back like he once might have, but returned the embrace. He held her as closely as he could, fighting the urge to pull her even tighter. The sweetness of her natural smell only served as an intoxicant, and he knew he could easily lose control of himself—again.

  As if she had read his mind, Francesca turned up her head and brushed her lips against his.

  Josiah immediately felt a surge of desire vibrating from the back of his neck down to the lower regions of his body. He pulled her closer then, kissed her deeply, knowing full well that it would be for the last time, maybe forever. He was never good at good-byes, and this time was proving to be no exception.

  Francesca seemed to know, and accept, the same thing. She responded in kind, snuggling into his chest as far as she could, not grinding with an offer, but pressing next to him like she was trying to drink in the moment so she would never forget it either.

  Even though he was transfixed and captivated by Francesca, Josiah was not entirely lost to the outside world. He felt another presence, another set of eyes on him, then heard the soft brush of boots on the step spinning around.

  He opened his eyes just in time to see the shadow of a man moving away.

  The shadow was familiar, and on most days, most men wouldn’t have known who the shadow belonged to, or wouldn’t have seen it at all, wouldn’t have known what they were looking at. But Josiah did. There was no mistaking that the shadow belonged to Juan Carlos.

  Josiah broke free of Francesca and rushed to the door, but when he looked both ways, there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but a pair of fresh boot prints in the mud, hurrying out of sight, slowly filling with water, too late to hide from Josiah’s view, or relieve the sinking feeling making its way to his gut.

  CHAPTER 18

  Josiah settled uncomfortably on Clipper’s back. The hard saddle and the prospect of the impending journey were as much an unwelcome development as Scrap’s return. Reality had ridden back into Arroyo long before Josiah was ready, but it was too late to lament the hard facts of his circumstances. It was time to leave.

  A thin grayness grasped at the golden evening light in the far corners of the sky. Darkness would follow them to camp, quick on their heels. Josiah had thought about trying to waylay Scrap—reasoning it would be best to spend another night in Arroyo, but he knew he was just being selfish, that he was trying to steal away more time with Francesca. Any thought of such a thing was gone, had been gone the moment Josiah walked into the cantina and found Scrap in a surly mood with a prisoner in hand. He still didn’t know the details of the capture, but he figu
red that would come soon enough. Scrap would have to relay the events to Captain McNelly, just like Josiah would have to tell his commanding officer of his new wounds.

  Thankfully, there was no question that he was able to make the ride. His strength had returned, though he still felt like his body, head to toe, had been walloped with a big, heavy club. Soreness and stiffness consumed him every time he moved without honoring his injuries, reminding him of the close call he’d had, and of the great care given to him by Adolfo and Francesca. He had been lucky to have fallen on friendly ground, so to speak, in more ways than one.

  It was hard to look at Francesca. She was standing next to her father in front of the entrance to the cantina, shoulder to shoulder. Her eyes were vacant, almost hard, staring past Josiah. She showed no sign of tears, or any emotion for that matter. Adolfo wore the same blank look, only he was focused on Scrap, whom he treated like a mad dog, a creature best to be avoided rather than tamed with kindness.

  There was no sign of Juan Carlos, and Josiah was certain that the Mexican wouldn’t show up to see him off. Disappearing was one of Juan Carlos’s greatest skills. It was hard telling when he’d see the man again, but he hoped it would be soon, or at least afford him the opportunity to explain himself when it did occur.

  Pearl had ended their relationship, and it was likely that Juan Carlos, who was overly protective of his only niece, didn’t know that the relationship was over. Stumbling on Josiah in a romantic embrace with Francesca without knowing the full story could have sent the old man off in a huff. They’d had some problems in the past when it came to matters of the heart, a fissure between them that Josiah thought had been healed. Still, it was hard to tell about Juan Carlos and his whereabouts, and it was little to worry about given the state of things.

  What had happened between Josiah and Francesca wasn’t any of Juan Carlos’s business. Josiah wasn’t even sure if he could rationalize their moment together for himself, but it was harder leaving her than he’d thought it would be.