“I remember fishing with you,” Josiah said. He tried to push away all of the rising emotion he could and looked up at the steamer.
One of the flaming rocks had taken seed. Fire was starting to climb up the outside of the smokestack. He could smell the smoke, and it made him happy. Revenge always tasted like acid in reality. Sweetness was just a child’s game.
The memory of standing in the ocean, fishing with Juan Carlos, was sharp as the knife that had been thrust into the old man’s chest. It was a good memory, a fine, perfect day, when all Josiah had hoped for was going home to Austin with Juan Carlos’s blessing and permission to court Pearl. Now all that he had gained that day was nearly gone, nothing more than a dream that had slipped woefully into a nightmare.
“It is fitting,” Juan Carlos said, “that I die on the edge of the sea. Luca would see the irony in it. I feel the comfort of it.”
Josiah was still staring at the growing fire. Black smoke was spiraling out of the captain’s tower, too. It wouldn’t be long before the entire steamer was ablaze. “Keep an eye out,” he said to Scrap. “If there are any men left on the boat, the fire will flush them like the rats they are.”
“Dead rats,” Scrap said. His Spencer rifle was only a few inches from his reach. He still had his hand on Juan Carlos’s chest, putting pressure on the wound, but there was no mistaking his readiness. “They ain’t gonna be nothin’ but dead rats.”
“Those were fine days,” Juan Carlos said. “But my best days were spent on a horse, riding next to my hermano.”
Josiah knew hermano meant brother. Juan Carlos had used the word several times in the past when he spoke of the dead captain. “Yes, those were good days, all of us together with Captain Fikes. I still have a hard time believing that he will not ride up and save the day one last time. I look for him out of the corner of my eye when we are riding, but all I see are shadows.”
“Those days are gone, lost in the river of time,” Juan Carlos said.
Josiah nodded. The battle in the distance had fallen silent. There had not been a gunshot in several minutes, not since before the deckhand stabbed Juan Carlos. He wondered if the fighting was over. “At least we have stopped Cortina.”
“Only on this day. He will scurry into the light again. Now he hides like the cucaracha that he really is.” Juan Carlos licked his lips and drew in a deep breath. His chest rattled louder than McNelly’s.
“I will hunt Cortina down if it is the last thing I do, and make him pay for what he has done.”
“Be careful of such oaths made in anger, señor. Cortina is more powerful than you think. He has many arms and many eyes. You are already his enemy. Your rage makes you weak, not strong. Look at me, lying here in my blood, twice wounded by my desire to stop him.”
“You have served proudly.”
“Not as proudly as you think.”
The words drifted off on the wind and mixed with the smoke. A flame jumped the length of the smokestack, flaring bright orange as the flames spread across the roof of the tower. It was like the sun had crashed to earth.
A wave of heat rushed over Josiah and Juan Carlos, gobbling at all the oxygen it could consume. An eruption of showering sparks followed. One hit Josiah’s neck, and it was like being stung by a giant, angry wasp. He slapped it away, knowing there would be more.
“We need to move you,” Josiah said.
Juan Carlos shook his head no, then stared at Josiah, his chest heavy, clanging with death, and filling with fluid. “I will ride at the side of el capitán once again. Tell Pearl not to be triste.”
Josiah didn’t know what the word meant, but he could feel its intent: pure, unadulterated sadness. Air caught in his own throat as he fought to breathe. His effort to push away any emotion was failing. His heart was racing. His mind screamed from deep inside him that there was something he should be doing to try and save his friend. But there was nothing he could do, and he knew it. A tear welled up in his eye, then slipped from the rim and trailed down his cheek. He sobbed then, like a boy. A flood of rage, uncertainty, and grief released like a pent-up dam, disabled with fissures and scars of time, finally weak enough to just . . . give.
The world had vanished. Every image was blurred. Every memory of death and loss, close to the surface. Lily slipping away in his arms, broken, but still harboring life in her swollen belly. Lowering his father’s coffin into the grave. The aftermath of Chickamauga. Smoke rising. The air filled with the smell of blood and defeat. The ground hallowed, to be forever haunted by innocent men, just following orders to serve a cause. Just like Juan Carlos.
When Josiah could finally get ahold of himself, he cleared his tears away and watched as the old Mexican arched his back, smiled, and took his last breath with as much confidence and bravery as he could muster.
CHAPTER 38
Captain McNelly and the rest of the company appeared on the horizon, rushing toward them with dedication, speed, and ferocity. They were little more than silhouettes, but hard to mistake. Josiah could identify McNelly, and his horse, a mile away.
The steamer was fully ablaze, from bow to stern, billowing black, angry smoke into the perfect cloudless sky. No other men had jumped to safety; no rats fled the heat and destruction like Josiah had thought might happen. It looked like the deckhand had been telling the truth. This battle was over. He had been the last man standing—and he’d made the most of it by killing Juan Carlos.
Josiah and Scrap had moved Juan Carlos’s body up into the grass and covered him from head to toe with a blanket. They were far enough away from the burning steamer but could still feel the heat from the fire, have their noses filled with flying ash, and be assaulted by the occasional, wayward spark. But they weren’t leaving. Not yet.
They had left the deckhand where he lay; at the border of the sand and water. If his clothes were not wet and blood-soaked, Josiah was certain that the sparks would have already found a home in them and caught fire. It would have been a fitting end for the man. As it was, Josiah was considering the possibility of tossing the man’s body onto the blazing steamer. But exerting any undue effort to bury the man, or do away with his body, churned his stomach.
A few seagulls landed downwind of the steamer, on the open beach. Three of them eyed the dead man’s body, bobbing their heads, looking for a way to get close enough for a peck of fresh flesh. Other seabirds circled overhead, looking for the same thing. Unfortunately, the fire was too hot and too close to the deckhand’s body for any of them to get to it.
After noticing the hungry birds, Josiah reconsidered the thought about leaving the deckhand where he lay. It might be more suitable to let the scavengers have at him, tear him apart bit by bloody bit. That thought made him feel better. He left it at that, though, and looked away from the boat and the man.
Josiah stared to the ground and tried to moderate his breathing. His face was covered with blood, sweat, dirt, and tearstains. Wiping away the consequences of the battle hadn’t occurred to him. Nor did he care if the company of Rangers saw the remnants of emotion on his skin. He didn’t care about much of anything at the moment. He was numb.
Scrap shuffled his feet, nervously waiting for McNelly to arrive. He stirred up a tiny cloud of flies.
They swarmed to Josiah’s face, and he batted them away, glaring at Scrap. “Can’t you stand still for a single minute?”
“I itch now that I stopped movin’. You think this is over?”
Josiah nodded. “McNelly wouldn’t be leading the company back if it weren’t.” His head throbbed, and just the sound of Scrap’s voice irritated him. He wanted nothing more than to just leave, to walk away—alone. But he knew he had to wait on the captain to come to collect them . . . and Juan Carlos.
There had been no consideration, or discussion, about what to do with Juan Carlos’s body. Leaving it to the birds was out of the question. Burning it right away wasn’t an option. Juan
Carlos deserved more. There’d be a proper burial, in one place or another, when the time came. But that decision—when, where, and how—would be left to Captain McNelly. Josiah was sure of that.
“I wonder if they herded the beeves? Might be steak for dinner. You know one or two of them got shot during this here fight. I sure could go for some good meat instead of beans, couldn’t you, Wolfe? I mean, I ain’t complainin’, but I’m hungry now that this is over with. I could eat a whole cow on my own. Don’t you get hungry after a fight, Wolfe?”
The thought of food, of eating, of a return to normal life, seemed disrespectful to Josiah. He turned to Scrap, prepared to tell him to shut up. Just please shut up. But the words wouldn’t come out. His mouth went dry, and for some reason, all of the pain that had been restricted because of the attention and adrenaline of the battle, washed over him in a wave. Not only was he numb, but now he felt weak. His knees trembled, and for a brief second, he thought he was going to fall face-first to the ground.
“You all right, Wolfe? You look pale as a ghost,” Scrap said. He stopped talking, stopped fidgeting for a brief second, releasing his own nervousness from the battle, for a moment.
“I’m fine.”
“You oughta sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Have it your way then.”
“I’m just trying to steady myself.” Josiah watched McNelly and the company ride toward them. They were about thirty yards down the beach. It was the whole lot of them. From what he could tell, it didn’t look like they’d lost a single man.
Robinson was in place as second in command, and all the familiar faces, Tom Darkson and the other fellas, all looked to be right where they were supposed to be. Of course, Josiah wasn’t about to go on counting. Some men had surely been left behind to tend to the herd of cattle, and some of the men in the line were most likely prisoners, certain to join the others that had been captured on the scouting trips.
It would be fine news to hear, or see, that Cortina had been shackled, captured alive and put on the path to justice. It would have been even better news if the man were dead, his dying moment slow and painful. Josiah would hope for that. The dangle of a slack rope. He hoped the man suffered just like Juan Carlos had, knowing full well that he was going to die.
He didn’t see a heavy guard on any of the Mexicans as the company drew closer, so that thought was most likely a false hope. But Cortina’s death was still a hope. The only thing better would be if he was the one to deliver the blow to Cortina. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to be the one to kill Juan Cortina and end his reign of terror and thievery.
“You sure you’re all right, Wolfe?” Scrap asked. “I ain’t never seen you like this.”
Josiah glared at him, then looked up as McNelly approached, ten yards away. They made eye contact, and Josiah looked away. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.”
“Leave it alone, Scrap.”
Scrap exhaled, pushed all of the air out of his chest, then bit his lip. “You know,” he said, “none of this would be happening if you would have let me shoot that there man when I wanted to.”
“What’d you say?”
“I’m just sayin’ Juan Carlos would still be alive if you woulda let me do what I saw fit to, when we had the time.”
Scrap acted like he was going to continue on, his nervousness and arrogance controlling his tongue, but he was stopped flat by Josiah.
The rage and pain Josiah felt could no longer be contained. It exploded up from the tips of his toes and careened completely out of control, bypassing his brain and launching his hardened fist fully from his heart. He reared back and punched Scrap in the jaw as hard as he could, sending the surprised boy spiraling backward, tripping and falling to the ground with a painful scream.
CHAPTER 39
Scrap bounded up from the ground just as McNelly brought the company to a halt. Scrap’s eyes were wild with rage; he looked like a rangy dog snarling after being kicked by its owner. Blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. His lip was busted, and the possibility that he had bit his tongue was almost certain. He was tense as a rope stretched tight between two trees, and his fists were balled tightly, ready for retribution. Seething with anger, he was nearly unleashed.
Thunder from the company and the roar of the consuming fire on the steamer were all Josiah could hear outside of his heartbeat. He couldn’t think at the moment. All he wanted to do was keep hitting Scrap, keep hitting him until he shut up, until he stopped his condemnation and pontificating on things he didn’t have a right to. But something deep inside Josiah pulled him back, made him stop and try to regain his senses.
He knew if he stepped one foot forward, if he actually had a go at Scrap again, he’d most likely kill the boy. Kill him right there and then, right in front of McNelly and the other Rangers.
It wasn’t the consequences of his own actions that concerned Josiah, that had stopped him. It was the right and wrong of killing. The day had been full of it. Enough was enough. Scrap didn’t deserve to die. He just needed to learn a lesson. Killing for spite was not something Josiah wanted to live with. He was no outlaw and didn’t intend to be anytime soon.
“What the hell are you doin’, Wolfe?” Scrap scrambled toward Josiah, not paying any attention to the fire or the location of the captain and the company.
Josiah focused all his energy on breathing deep breaths, on stepping back. He didn’t want to hurt Scrap any more than he already had, but he would defend himself if he had to.
Guilt and regret would possibly come later for punching the boy, but now all Josiah was concerned about was restraint.
He knew himself well enough to know what he was capable of, how far to go, when he was about to snap and not care about right or wrong. The punch was as close as he’d come to that line in a long time. The best thing to do was let go of it, realize that Scrap hadn’t meant what he said. Emotions were raw and tender after everything that had happened.
Josiah couldn’t even look at the lump in the grass covered by the blanket. He couldn’t stomach the thought that Juan Carlos was really dead.
“That will be enough, Elliot!” It was McNelly’s voice, booming over the ruckus and fire. He rode straight between Josiah and Scrap and came to a sudden, authoritative stop. “We do not fight with each other. We save that for the enemy!”
Scrap stopped his rush and stared at McNelly like he was God come down from the heavens, issuing a commandment. “He started it,” Scrap said, pointing at Josiah with a trembling finger.
Josiah lowered his head and didn’t offer to defend himself.
McNelly climbed down off his horse and came to a stop face-to-face with Josiah.
The captain had taken a nick over his eye. The blood had already congealed, and a dried crimson rivulet cut through the grime of battle. “You need to tell me what’s going on here, Wolfe. What has happened that has caused you and Ranger Elliot to come to fisticuffs?”
Josiah sucked in a breath of ashy air and said nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of Juan Carlos’s death.
“Well, come on, man,” McNelly demanded. “Cat got your tongue, or is it shame that’s stuck in your throat?”
“Neither, sir,” Josiah finally said.
The company circled around Josiah, McNelly, and Scrap, with the exception of Robinson. He rode past them all, splashed along the edge of the water, and circled around the dead deckhand. He said nothing, just looked up at the burning steamer and rode back into the company, dodging a spray of sparks as a large wave rocked the boat, tilting it toward the beach. Robinson stopped and took the reins of McNelly’s horse into his thick hands. He looked bloodied and battle-weary, too.
“I’m in no mood for shenanigans, Sergeant Wolfe. The day has been long, and Cortina still eludes us,” McNelly said.
The emphasis of his rank caused a shiver t
o run up and down Josiah’s spine. With the lack of uniforms and precise military demands, it was easy to forget that he had duties to fulfill. Restraint was even more important to him in that moment. “You have captured the herd, though, stopped this operation?”
“That was not the prize.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Josiah broke eye contact with the captain and watched Robinson in the periphery as he dismounted his horse, handing off the reins to Tom Darkson, then circled Juan Carlos’s body. “Juan Carlos was killed. We lost Pip Howerson, too. I think the battle set me and Elliot on edge. Nothing was meant by it. Just nerves that got the best of us.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me,” McNelly said, perusing Scrap from head to toe. He exhaled deeply. “I’ll want a full account of this incident once we’re back at camp. I’m very disturbed by your actions, Wolfe.”
“I understand, sir.”
“There are no others left to fight then? All of the men on the boat are dead?” McNelly asked with a cock of his head toward the steamer.
“There’s been no jumpers since I started the fire. The deckhand seems to have been the last man standing.”
“Well, at least the boat is destroyed. That doesn’t make up for a life, but it makes up for something.” McNelly turned, grabbed his horse’s reins from Darkson, who was standing stoically, and started to hoist his boot into the stirrup, but stopped and returned his attention to Josiah. “Bring the bodies back to camp with you. We’ll need to see to a proper burial before the critters come along and think they’ve stumbled upon a feast.”
The Gila Wars Page 19
