The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Scrap slapped the tube in, closed the slide, pumped a round into the chamber, then cocked the rifle, ready to shoot. “Let me pound a few more rounds thataway. My gut tells me the bastard’s a-hidin’ in the bowels of that boat.”

  Josiah didn’t object, just dropped his chin. “I haven’t seen any movement for a long minute.”

  “What the hell happened anyway, Wolfe?” Scrap eyed the steamer, then pulled the Spencer’s trigger, not giving Josiah a chance to answer. He fired off all his rounds without stopping.

  The smoke was thick, catching in the wind off the water, pushing away quickly. Gunfire still popped behind them, but it was more infrequent. So were the screams from the men. There was hardly any noise from the longhorns. Distant moos. Nothing close, like the sounds of an imminent stampede, to be concerned about.

  Josiah waited for the smoke to clear before saying anything, watching the boat as closely as Scrap. He saw nothing. “We came up on a scout. He shot Pip’s horse.”

  Scrap’s eyes widened. “The chestnut mare?”

  Josiah nodded. “Killed it outright.”

  “Damn. That was a fine horse.” Scrap unconsciously patted Missy’s neck.

  “I went after the scout, and Pip went in the opposite direction, but he must not’ve kept low enough. The scout shot him, too.”

  “Kill him?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s a damn shame, too. Pip was a good fella. I liked him good enough—except when he took my coin.”

  “Which was frequently.”

  “Ain’t gonna wish a man dead over a bad bet.”

  “I’d hope not.”

  “There’ll be more dead before this day’s over with,” Josiah said, casting a glance at the sky, eyeing a vulture in the distance.

  “Let’s hope there’s more Mexican blood spilt than Anglo. I bet that coward Cortina ain’t nowheres near here. Probably sent all his lowlifes to do his biddin’. I can’t abide a man like that. I surely can’t.”

  Neither of them spoke after that—they let the air settle around them. Nothing else needed saying. There was a toll to be paid in a battle such as this, and they both knew they were lucky to be alive.

  Scrap reloaded again, and Josiah turned his attention away from the steamer. He heard horses approaching. He expected to see the captain coming his way, and he was right. The captain was riding toward him, the ridge and area behind them all secured by Rangers taking stations at strategic points. But Josiah was surprised to see another rider with the captain other than Robinson, who was at McNelly’s side as well.

  The other rider was Juan Carlos, come to join the fight.

  CHAPTER 33

  “I’m pretty certain I kilt them fellas outright on that boat, Captain,” Scrap said to McNelly. He didn’t make eye contact with Juan Carlos, didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

  All five men were huddled in a circle, on their horses, about twenty-five yards from the shore, just inside the grass line. Robinson held his rifle, ready to pop it up and shoot at a second’s notice.

  “Pretty certain could get us all killed, Elliot,” McNelly said. “Dead certain is more the course of action that interests me at the moment.”

  Scrap lowered his eyes to the ground. “Yes, sir, I just ain’t seen no movement for a good while, and I unloaded a belt full of cartridges on that floater. Wolfe, too. We got one man for sure. It don’t look like there can be more than that, and the captain, onboard.”

  McNelly looked at Scrap warily. “You’d serve yourself to not think, Ranger Elliot. I admire your shooting skills, but Cortina’s as smart as a hungry coyote and sly as an old fox. Just because you see something doesn’t make it true. Especially in the heat of battle. But you’re too young to understand that.”

  Scrap bit the corner of his lip, visibly fighting to keep any words swirling around in his head from jumping off his tongue. Every man in the Ranger camp knew that McNelly didn’t suffer fools gladly, and that sentiment must have surely been ramped up since they were in the midst of battle, a battle they’d all known was coming for days on end.

  Josiah was impressed by Scrap’s restraint.

  Juan Carlos hadn’t spoken a word since coming to a stop, and he didn’t look interested in being thrust into the middle of any confrontation between Scrap and Captain McNelly. He sat stoically, and uncomfortably, on a gelding paint that looked as old and haggard as Juan Carlos himself.

  The man looked to have aged ten years since Josiah had seen him last—uneasily in the shadows from Arroyo. All of the lines in the old Mexican’s face looked deeper, his face sunken like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks. His clothes, hardly anything more than rags, orange, brown, and dirty, hung off his skinny body like a blanket thrown over a rotted scarecrow’s frame. Raggedy and dirty was not an unusual look for Juan Carlos, but something seemed different. He looked to be at death’s door.

  It hadn’t been that long ago that the Mexican had nearly died, had been shot precariously close to the gut, and Josiah wondered if the injury had come back to haunt Juan Carlos. He surely understood the effect that a recent injury could have on a man’s constitution.

  Of course, they were all ragged and skinny—being on the trail and in the midst of battle had its price for every man.

  Captain McNelly eyed the horizon, then turned his attention to Josiah. “I want you to sweep around behind us and make sure there aren’t any strays, Wolfe. The steamer doesn’t pose any threat that I can see. The delivery has been averted, and I’d dare say that the scoundrel Cortina has a backup plan. I would if I were him.” He hesitated for a second, casting a glance to Scrap. “Take both Elliot and Juan Carlos with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Be wary, Wolfe. This battle is far from over. Nothing will end until Cortina is dead and buried, his ambitions put to a final end. This is a war to him. There’s more at stake than just rustling these cows out of Texas. Do I make myself clear?”

  Josiah nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said again. His voice was unwavering. He was glad to have the company of Scrap and Juan Carlos—but the old Mexican’s presence made him uncomfortable. There was some unfinished business to tend to, at least as far as Josiah was concerned. He was certain that Juan Carlos had seen him in an embrace with Francesca. Luckily, Josiah still had Pearl’s letter inside his coat pocket. He hadn’t thought to discard it, not that he would have, but leaving it behind with the rest of his belongings might have been preferable. A constant reminder of the rejection was the last thing he needed on his mind as he ventured into battle.

  “Very well then.” McNelly readjusted himself in his saddle. Gun smoke still clouded the air, and the pops and pings of gunshots rang in the air, although more infrequently now than when the battle first began.

  Josiah could hear the rattle in McNelly’s chest and see the strain on his face.

  “Onward, Robinson,” the captain commanded, punching his horse urgently with both ankles.

  Dust, and a cloud of flies, kicked up as McNelly and Robinson sped away. Josiah watched them carefully for a long moment, his hand on the trigger of his Winchester just in case an unseen shooter popped up somewhere and they needed covered. “Let’s get out of range of the steamer,” Josiah said.

  “I kilt every living being on that boat, Wolfe.”

  “I hope you’re right, Scrap. I damn sure hope you’re right.”

  * * *

  Josiah had allowed Scrap to take the lead. They crested the rise and circled around Pip and his dead horse. Both were hard to miss, but Josiah didn’t linger, didn’t replay any of the prior events that had brought on both deaths. And Scrap was happy, for once, to keep his mouth shut.

  There had been several dead Mexicans littered about on the way up the rise, but Josiah didn’t stop to count them, though the thought of it occurred to him. If Garcia and Rafael had been telling the truth about the num
ber of men assigned to the rustling operation, then it would’ve given him a better idea how many men were left living.

  Fighting in the distance faded, and for all intents and purposes, the battle was over. Still, Josiah understood McNelly’s concern. One man could return to Cortina’s camp and tell him of the outcome, could cause the bandit to re-outfit and send another wave of fighters—if he actually did have a backup plan.

  “I am glad to see you, Juan Carlos,” Josiah said.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, of course it’s so.” The discomfort that Josiah had detected upon first seeing Juan Carlos remained. The Mexican looked like he could hardly contain his anger. “There’s something we need to speak of.”

  “This may not be the time, or the place, señor.”

  “It may be the only place and time.” Josiah looked away from Juan Carlos’s penetrating eyes, making sure that Scrap was far enough out of earshot and focused on the trail, and sweep, like he was supposed to be.

  “If you insist,” Juan Carlos said.

  “It is about Pearl.”

  “My concern for her exceeds that of my own life.”

  “I understand that. And your friendship is important to me. I owe you my life.”

  “And I am indebted to you for mine more than once. But there are limits to a man’s gratitude.”

  Josiah tapped his chest. “I received a letter before Scrap and I left for Arroyo. A letter from Pearl. She has decided that she doesn’t want to live the life of her mother, always waiting on bad news from the trail or wondering of my safety. She wishes to get on with her life without me in it.”

  “And from that news, you rush into the arms of another woman, señor? I thought you were a different kind of man than that.”

  “I am simply a man,” Josiah said, almost whispering. “I have the letter if you would like to see it.”

  Juan Carlos shook his head no. “I believe you. Pearl has always been very inquieto, um, restless. The shadows of both her mama and her papa haunt her. She wishes to stand on her own two feet. I am happy for that. I just wish she could have been patient. You, too.”

  “I will seek her out once I return to Austin.”

  “Remember you are a fighting man.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You are alone in the world. Moments of weakness or desire rise infrequently. Pearl’s father was a guerrero, a warrior, too, just like you. She knew the consequences of her choice when she gave herself to you.” Juan Carlos looked away for a brief moment. “If our friendship has survived to this day, then a beautiful woman will not sever it. You have not betrayed me.”

  Josiah sighed, relieved, and nodded.

  Ahead, Scrap stopped, wrapped the reins loosely around the horn of his saddle, and drew his Spencer out of the scabbard. “Wolfe, you best come have a look at this,” he said, easing his finger onto the trigger.

  CHAPTER 34

  The afternoon sky had burned white. It was like the ocean had sucked all of the blue out of it. The only sound reaching the trio was the waves, crashing into the land, the tide rising, pushing the steamer precariously close to the shore.

  It was not the sight of the boat coming to shore that had caused them to turn back; what happened to the vessel was of little concern to them. If it crashed on the rocks and broke apart, it would be viewed as a good thing, voiding the opportunity for the boat to be used again by Cortina, or his men, to transport anything for their cause. What did concern them, though, was the bloodied man standing at the bow of the steamer, waving a white flag, obviously unable to flee, to right the ship and save it, or himself.

  Scrap had stopped Missy on the ridge, looking down to the ocean. Josiah knew what the boy was thinking, could see his trigger finger twitching—Scrap wanted to ignore the white flag and shoot the man outright.

  “I’d take a deep breath if I were you, Elliot.” Josiah eased Clipper alongside Scrap. Juan Carlos gave way to Josiah and held back. He bore no expression on his face, and kept his attention focused on the man on the boat.

  “One shot, Wolfe. It’d be over quick,” Scrap said.

  “You going to explain that to the captain?”

  Scrap glared at Josiah out of the corner of his eye. “Who says I’d have to?”

  “The man is surrendering.”

  “Tell me the truth. You ain’t never kilt a man who was offering himself up as a prisoner?”

  Josiah looked away. “It was different in the war.”

  “This is a war, too,” Scrap said with clenched teeth. “Ain’t no damn different. If that man there had the opportunity to kill me right now, he would, and you know it. Fact is, he don’t have that opportunity. Should’ve thought of that when he hooked himself up with the likes of Cortina.”

  “You’re just angry because you made a stand to McNelly, proclaiming all of the men on that boat were dead, victims of your excellent shooting skills. And it’s not true. Kind of makes you look bad, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you.” The veins in Scrap’s neck and forehead pulsed as his face turned red. “You ain’t gonna let me shoot him, are you, Sergeant Wolfe?”

  The emphasis Scrap put on the word “Sergeant” made him sound like a little boy about to throw a fit because he didn’t get what he wanted. Josiah was very familiar with the attitude since he had a toddler son, but he didn’t flinch. “You shoot if you have to. Not until.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Juan Carlos eased up alongside Josiah. “Here, señor, this may help.” He handed Josiah a brass telescope much like an officer would have used in the War Between the States.

  Josiah gladly accepted the telescope and looked through it with one eye cocked and closed.

  The man on the boat was still swinging a white rag. There was blood on his shirt, and no sign of any weapons. He was dark-skinned and could have been a Mexican or Cuban, it was hard to tell.

  Josiah was concerned the surrender was a ploy, a trick. He’d seen it happen more than once when he was fighting the Yankees. The enemy would lure their opponents to them under the guise of injury, or willingness to give up the fight, only to open fire from which there was no escape. It was an age-old trick, but still effective to the man who led with his emotions instead of his brain.

  From what Josiah could see, there was no other movement on the steamer. He held the telescope as steady as he could. The rising tide was pushing the boat toward land quickly, on high, aggressive, waves. It would only be a matter of minutes before it washed ashore.

  Josiah pulled his sight back from the man and the deck of the boat and slowly scanned the grasses for any kind of movement or shadows of men hiding. He saw nothing. Just the wind dancing across the top of the grass like before, dancing naturally from gusts off the water.

  Satisfied, he pulled the telescope from his eye. “Looks clear, but that doesn’t mean it is. However we proceed, we need to be cautious. We’re right in the middle of a desperate hour for Cortina’s men.”

  The shooting in the distance had died down; it was infrequent now. There was no sign of the herd of longhorns or the vaqueros charged to get them on board the steamer. If there was any kind of battle, or hand fighting, going on, it was out of sight, and out of earshot.

  It was almost like the three of them had been abandoned. And with the exception of the dead Mexicans littered on the beach, there was no sign or indication that any kind of fight had ever taken place at all.

  “The captain ordered us to circle around and sweep for strays or snipers,” Josiah said. “We need to take this man in alive, if we can. He sees us, knows we’re here. Fire a warning shot, Elliot. Crack the wood just at his feet to show him we’re serious.”

  “Just the wood?”

  “Don’t miss. That’s an order.”

  Scrap sighed, settled the butt of his Spencer rifle to his shoulder, and pulled the trig
ger, hitting exactly where Josiah had told him to.

  The man on board the steamer jumped and started yelling louder. He danced wildly, waving the white rag even more frantically than before. He was barely able to hang on as the boat pitched and yawed heavily to the starboard side. A paddle on the rear wheel snapped off and crashed into another one, causing the entire mechanism to shatter. The steamer groaned and ground ashore, coming to a stop—luckily, all in one piece, causing the man to stop, hang on, and not tumble over the railing.

  Josiah didn’t move, just watched the crash with interest. “Scrap, you stay up here and cover us.”

  “You think that’s necessary?”

  “Might not be, but I’d sure hate to regret not giving that order.”

  “Suit yourself.” Scrap lowered his Spencer from his shoulder and pointed it to the ground, allowing the weapon to be raised and fired on short notice.

  CHAPTER 35

  “Ease on down here. Once you get on the ground, put your hands behind your head, and you won’t get hurt,” Josiah said, with the man on the boat’s head squarely within his aim.

  Juan Carlos fought to hold his old horse steady a few feet from the water. The waves seemed to make it nervous. He held a Colt Open Top as best he could. The Open Top was a predecessor to the Colt Single-Action Army, the Peacemaker. It fired .44 rimfire cartridges, and from what Josiah had seen in the past, Juan Carlos was a decent shot. The outdated weapon was nothing to be concerned about. But the advantage always fell to the newer model Colts, like the Peacemaker Josiah carried, and to the man with a steady horse and a steady hand. The hair on the back of Josiah’s neck was on end, and he was alert to every sound and movement around him.

  The man on the boat nodded, then started to climb over the rail.

  “Slow now,” Josiah commanded. “I’m in no mood for any tricks.” He tilted his head back to the ridge without taking his eyes off the man. “And that fella up there? He’s got a real itchy finger. He’s done killed a few of your men today, and my guess is, he isn’t ready to quit anytime soon. Comprende?”