The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Josiah cast a furtive look toward Scrap, but said nothing. McNelly was approaching, and besides, Scrap was just being Scrap. There was no changing that.

  “I see you’re packed and ready to venture out,” McNelly said.

  Lieutenant Robinson was a few feet behind the captain and stopped in McNelly’s shadow. Robinson said nothing, just stood stoically, with a look of disapproval plastered on his face.

  “We are,” Josiah said.

  McNelly reach up and handed Josiah a bundle of letters. “Please deliver these to General Steele. He will know what to do with those that do not concern him.”

  Josiah took the letters and immediately swung around, snapped open the lock to the ammunition box, and put them in with Juan Carlos’s satchel. “I will do that,” he said. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

  McNelly nodded yes. “Tom Darkson’s been notified that he is riding along with you two. He’s on the perimeter, keeping watch, and will join you when you pass. The value of your cargo may draw attention from Cortina, his bandits, or other wayfarers along the way. I doubt you’ll have trouble with the Apache, but you never know. It’s imperative that you reach Austin safely, and as soon as possible. I thought Darkson would be a worthy addition to your charge.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Josiah answered. “There was a lone rider come to see me off after you and the company left me there to bring back Juan Carlos. I couldn’t get a clear sight of the man, but I figured it was a scout come to see the damage done to the plan, or it was Cortina himself. But he was gone before I could get a shot off.” He watched McNelly process the information, and waited for a response. When none came, Josiah continued, “And thank you for sending Darkson along with us. I know you need every man here to finish the fight with Cortina.”

  “I am counting on your return, and reinforcements from the other companies, if General Steele sees fit to send them along. Otherwise, we will do the best we can with what we have,” Captain McNelly said. He looked away from Josiah and settled his gaze on Scrap. “You keep a sharp eye out, too, Elliot. If there was a scout, then you’ll be in danger the whole way.”

  “No worry there, Captain.”

  “Well then,” McNelly said, “be off with you now. Have a safe journey.” He coughed then—so deeply the power of it bent him over. Robinson was at the captain’s side in two shakes, guiding him back toward his tent.

  Josiah nodded with concern but knew there was nothing he could do about the captain’s consumptive fit. He flipped the reins and headed the wagon slowly out of the Ranger camp—without fanfare, or much attention from the other boys at all.

  * * *

  Tom Darkson sat on his horse, a paint gelding that was more brown than white, at the top of a hill, waiting for Josiah and Scrap to arrive. Once they met up, Darkson pulled up alongside the wagon and tipped his well-worn black felt Stetson to Josiah, offering a silent hello.

  “Nothing I could see for miles,” Darkson said. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of no Mexicans or Apache. I think we sent ’em runnin’ back to their holes.”

  “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Josiah said. “We didn’t kill every man that’s loyal to Cortina. There’s still eyes about that answer to him. This is a long ride. You ready for that?”

  “Sure am. I ain’t been up Austin way in a coon’s age. Last time I was there, I was punchin’ longhorns on the way to Dallas. I got to tell you, I don’t miss those days. I’ll take my forty a month with the Rangers, and be glad to do whatever the captain says, just like you fellas.” Darkson glanced back at the coffin, then to Josiah. “Can’t you cover that up with a blanket or somethin’? Who wants to see a reminder of a dead man every step of the way?”

  “It might ward off some trouble,” Josiah said.

  “Never thought of that,” Darkson replied, nodding his head as a flash of recognition crossed his face. “That’s a good idea.”

  “Wolfe has those every once in a while,” Scrap said. He was on the other side of the wagon, keeping pace. “You got enough supplies to make the trip?”

  Darkson eyed Scrap curiously and shrugged his shoulders. “Enough is enough, I ’spect. We can all split off and share huntin’ duties, unless you want to take that on, Elliot.”

  “Sharin’s just fine with me. It’s the cookin’ I can do without.”

  Josiah chuckled—he’d eaten Scrap’s cooking. The boy could burn water and make a rabbit taste like jerky without trying. It was nice to ease into the trip with some decent conversation and, better yet, to have Tom Darkson along. “How’s those ribs holding up? Doc Tinker tell you what to do?”

  “Still pretty durn sore, I’ll tell you. But I’ll be fine. I think that’s one of the reasons the captain sent me along. I ain’t much good to him other than standin’ watch or pickin’ up duty at the camp. I can ride, but the pain tires me some. I’ll be fine, though. Doc just said to keep wrapped tight, that’s all. Not much else I could do to heal but give it time. That’s all he said. Give it time.”

  “Like the rest of us,” Josiah said. He had the scabs on his face from the scattershot wound, and the gunshot wound on his shoulder. Scrap had his black eye and damaged ego. Along with Darkson’s broken ribs, they were a broken trio, hobbling north toward the promised land of home, bearing a dead body, bad news, and wealth of an unimaginable amount, at least to Josiah, to an unsuspecting woman.

  CHAPTER 49

  Josiah stopped the wagon at the crossroad that led to Arroyo.

  The ride had been silent and calm, with Tom Darkson leading the way and Scrap bringing up the rear. Nothing had changed in the sky, hidden by the persistent gray blanket of clouds. The change in weather had been a nice reprieve from the beating sun of the last few days, and there was a coolness to the air, offering some much needed comfort.

  It would take Josiah a while to adjust to the wagon’s seat instead of a saddle, but the hardest part of the journey—starting—was behind them all. There was no lightness in any of their moods. Their cargo and purpose prevented that. Still, it felt as if the farther away from camp they got, the more comfortable the idea of the trip became.

  Scrap stopped a couple of horse-lengths behind Josiah, keeping quiet, eyeing the road to Arroyo with disdain. It would have served Josiah to feel the same way, but he didn’t, couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything but a moment of desire and regret.

  Tom Darkson doubled back and came to an easy stop next to the wagon. “Somethin’ the matter, Wolfe?”

  Josiah shook his head no. “Everything’s fine, Tom. Don’t you worry.”

  “Then why we stoppin’?” Darkson asked. He eased his hand down to his sidearm, a Colt Peacemaker, the same model as Josiah’s, even newer, with nary a scratch on the grips.

  “Just thinking some things through. Give me a minute. We’ll be on our way shortly,” Josiah said. “There’s no threat, so you can relax those fingers.”

  Tom Darkson started to say something, then obviously thought better of it because of the serious look on Josiah’s face. He spun his horse around and galloped about fifty yards up the road that led to Austin, and stopped. His head darting about like one of those ground owls’, on the lookout for anything that might attack.

  Josiah sighed. There was no way he could explain to Darkson the choices he was faced with. Fact was, he didn’t want to. He didn’t even want to face the decisions himself, but he knew he had to.

  What he faced was simple, really. He could ride into Arroyo and do his best to sweep Francesca off her feet, and never leave. It would be easy enough to send for Lyle and all of his earthly belongings, pull up stakes in the capital city, and plant new roots in the desolation of Arroyo. If Ofelia chose to come, that would be fine. But she was free to go on with her life if Arroyo didn’t appeal to her. The move to Austin had been a big enough upheaval for her; expecting her to follow him to South Texas so soon
would be a bit much to ask.

  Josiah considered that, and then the idea progressed further—if he were a dishonest man, knowing full well that there was no accounting of Juan Carlos’s entire wealth, he knew he could live comfortably for a long time. Pearl would never be the wiser about her inheritance and the amazing fortune that her uncle had amassed and carried with him. She would never know what was to come to her from her uncle’s death. Josiah could feel the letter from Pearl stuffed in his pocket—it felt like fire to his heart as he thought about deceiving her.

  And then he considered the manner of Juan Carlos’s death, matched as it would be with Josiah’s sudden wealth if he chose to carry out the scheme. Some people might eventually construe that the death was purposeful, that Josiah had set Juan Carlos up to die so he could get access to his money.

  The farther away from the truth the tale got, the more it could grow, and Josiah could easily find himself on the wrong side of the law. He’d be more than a thief—especially with his history of violence taken into consideration—he’d be a greedy, murdering outlaw.

  Josiah sighed again and focused on the distant buildings at the end of the road. He could not bring more trouble to Francesca than he already had. Her heart was tender, and needful, as it was.

  Truth was, Josiah didn’t feel any love for her. Just desire. Just the want of her body next to his in a more acceptable location. His needs were carnal and natural, but hardly worth changing his life for, or tossing his morals to the wind. He’d known that before he stopped the wagon, but he also knew he would have to make the choice one last time.

  Francesca was a beautiful woman, hard to resist, easy on the eyes, but even if he did love her, he didn’t know if it would be enough to overcome what the world would inflict on them, what with him being Anglo and her a Mexican. Life would be made ugly for them both, but even more so for Lyle.

  And that was the stopping point, that and the idea of taking something that didn’t belong to him. No matter how he felt about being spurned by Pearl, putting Lyle into a situation that could lead to trouble, or worse, and being a dishonest man just didn’t sit well with Josiah. No matter the beauty of a woman, Mexican or otherwise, and the amount of money at hand. Nothing was free, and Josiah knew that wasn’t going to change now. He’d pay a hefty price for the theft of Juan Carlos’s fortune, and the love of a brown-skinned woman. But the decisions were separate, not dependent on each other. Still, it was also one big decision, and there was no question which one Josiah had to make.

  Regretfully, he flipped the reins to the horse and urged it to move on as quickly as it could.

  A cloud of dust kicked up behind him, rising on the steady breeze, trailing into the sky and obscuring anything behind that might be worth a second look. Scrap pushed Missy into a hard run, passing Josiah without saying a word, catching up with Darkson, then running faster still, until he, too, was almost out of sight.

  CHAPTER 50

  Night fell comfortably around the three men in a shallow limestone canyon. The place was foreign to all three of them, but the look of it had appealed to them. There was a stream cutting through the land, offering a decent spot for watering, resting the horses and themselves. Wildlife seemed plentiful. The surrounding trees were full of birds, the chatter only quieting briefly as the trio of Rangers set up camp. A few squirrels scolded them for interrupting their tranquility.

  Scrap had gone out and shot two skinny jackrabbits. Both had been cleaned and stuffed on a makeshift spit and were now cooking over a healthy fire. Mesquite smoke streamed upward into the sky, filling the air with the smell of cooking meat, and the comfort of camp.

  The clouds had started to break up, previewing a starry black sky. The promise of rain throughout the day had never been fulfilled, which was just as well as far as Josiah was concerned. All that remained of the day’s weather was the steady breeze, pushing up from the south, bringing a slight taste of ocean salt to the tongue.

  They were still close to the edge of land and the beginning of the ocean, but by late tomorrow, they would be far enough away from it for it to be just a memory, out of range of the senses. Whether that memory would be bad or good was yet to be determined, but Josiah was leaning toward bad.

  He would never forget Juan Carlos falling to the sand, with the sound of the waves crashing behind him so loudly that the surrounding screams, yells, and gunshots could hardly be heard. There was no way he would find joy in remembering the ocean. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  “I think when we get to San Antonio, I’m gonna get me a bath, sleep in a nice soft feather bed at the Menger Hotel, and chase me down some fine soiled dove for a little entertainment,” Tom Darkson said. He was sitting next to Josiah, watching the jackrabbits roast over the fire. The skin was getting crispy, and occasionally, a bit of fat would drip into the flames, causing them to flare up.

  Scrap was on the other side of the fire, smoking a quirlie, paying neither man any mind at all. He was quiet, more so than usual, but Josiah knew that wouldn’t last. Something would get in Scrap’s craw, and he’d go off on some sort of rant. Or out of the blue, he’d start talking endlessly about nothing at all, just to hear his own voice. Tom Darkson was like that, too. Only not as quiet and brooding as Scrap. Still, he was turning out to be a decent traveling companion, and Josiah was glad for his presence on the trip.

  “We’re not stopping in San Antonio,” Josiah said.

  “What do you mean we’re not stopping?”

  “Exactly what I said. I don’t care what Doc Tinker did to preserve that body, you think it’s going to last forever?”

  Darkson shrugged his shoulders, then looked deep into the fire. “I don’t care to think about such things.”

  “None of us do,” Josiah said. “But it’s a fact of life. We need to get that body to Austin and in the ground as soon as we can.” He titled his head to the south.

  “What’s the matter?” Darkson asked.

  Scrap stood up, staring off in the same direction that Josiah was listening. He’d heard something that alarmed him, too.

  A coyote howled not far off in the distance. It yipped three times, grew silent, then yipped three more times.

  “Sounds odd, Wolfe,” Scrap said. “A little too close for my liking.”

  “Mine, too.” Josiah nodded as he stood up and glanced over to Clipper. The horse was tethered to a line between two cottonwoods with the other two horses. All of the gear had been removed from their backs, including the scabbards that held the rifles. At the moment, Josiah cursed himself for getting too comfortable too quick.

  “Scrap, grab your rifle and scout the north. Darkson, you need to dash the fire. Don’t kill the coals just yet, in case I’m wrong,” Josiah ordered.

  “Wrong about what?” Darkson asked, the color of his face growing pale, even in the bright firelight.

  “Apache, you idiot,” Scrap said. “Me and Wolfe both have crossed paths with ’em comin’ and goin’ this close to Mexico. Or it could be some of Cortina’s men, tracking after us for a dose of revenge.”

  “Oh,” Darkson said. “What do I do if it is Apache, after I put the fire out?”

  “Shoot first and ask questions later,” Josiah said.

  * * *

  The blackness of night was like a heavy veil away from the campfire. Josiah crawled on his belly to the top of the limestone embankment that overlooked the canyon they had taken refuge in. It was difficult to see very far. He had barely seen the patch of prickly pear, coming up the game trail that led to the top. He’d hoped not to disturb a rattlesnake, or a nest of scorpions on the way, too.

  The coyote had gone silent. Just the three calls, followed by three more. Josiah had learned the hard way not to trust his ears, especially when it came to the Apache or Mexicans. They favored raiding camps at night. The Indians were ruthless fighters, and though he doubted they would find much value in Juan Carlos’s papers, th
e gold coins would be enough to justify the attack. Cortina’s men would be after a bounty of a different kind.

  The dead body, on the other hand, might be enough to ward off the Apache. Regardless of their reputation, Josiah had never heard of any Indian that favored being around dead bodies. There was a good chance that if they had been scouted, the coffin had been a bad sign, sending the Apache on their way, into the night, searching for something else to attack and steal.

  The vista that stretched out in front of Josiah was amazing, even in the darkness. The land toward Austin grew flat, but Josiah knew that wouldn’t last. There were more canyons to the south of San Antonio, and the hill country to the north of it. Luckily, the trails through both were reasonably easy to traverse with a wagon—unless it rained.

  Josiah brought to his eye the spyglass that he’d carried with him and scanned the outlying land. He saw nothing moving. Not man or beast. He hadn’t really expected to. Apache and coyotes both seemed to have some kind of magical control over the shadows of night. Still, he had hoped for some kind of sign to prove himself right, or allow him to relax.

  After several long minutes, he withdrew the spyglass and collapsed it back down, then made his way back down the embankment the same way he’d come up—on his belly.

  Trusting his eyes, and taking his sight for granted, had been stupid. McNelly had warned him of the Apache’s existence in these parts, and he knew of it himself—just like he knew that Cortina might well be on the lookout for revenge, like Scrap had said. Still, he had lit a blazing fire and set to cooking like he was in the big Ranger camp, protected by the presence of men just like himself and an armed perimeter to keep them all safe.

  If it had just been a coyote he’d heard, this would be a lesson quickly learned. A reminder that they were in the wilds of South Texas with no protection but their wits and the guns they carried. There was no one near to come to their rescue.