The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  The trip down the limestone embankment was easier than getting up it. Knowing where the holes and prickly pear were helped Josiah navigate it easily.

  Once at the base, he stood up and came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. He had to blink to make sure it wasn’t Darkson or Scrap mistaking him for an intruder. It wasn’t. There was no mistaking that the man was a Mexican. And that could only mean that he was one of Cortina’s men or a threat of some kind; perhaps the lone rider Josiah had spied on the hill after the company had gone back to camp after the battle. Josiah’s mouth went dry. For all he knew, the man could be Cortina himself.

  “One move, señor, and you are a dead man. And do not think to call out for your amigos, do you understand?”

  A cold chill traveled up Josiah’s spine. The man had not shot, had not taken the opportunity to kill him when he easily could have. “Who are you?” Josiah asked.

  “It makes no difference,” the Mexican said. He was nearly as tall as Josiah, and he had obviously been riding for days without a bath. He smelled like a dead possum that had been baking in the sun. “Cortina wishes to kill you himself.” He pressed the gun, an older Colt, but still a viable gun, against Josiah’s forehead. “Now, when I say so, turn around, and don’t make a sound. Entiendes? Understand?”

  “My boys will come looking for me.”

  “We will be long gone. Now, turn around slowly.” The Mexican pulled the gun away cautiously. The sight of it almost disappeared completely in the darkness of the night.

  Josiah knew the farther away from camp he was, the greater chance that he would die, either by Cortina’s hand or his captor’s. He had no choice but to fight, with the hope that Scrap and Darkson would come to his rescue.

  Instead of turning, Josiah stood still, refused the order.

  “I said move, now!” The Mexican pushed him in the chest with his other hand, and with as much quickness as Josiah could muster, he grabbed the man’s wrist, pulled it toward him, bringing the man’s chin directly into contact with his rising elbow. The Mexican screamed out, and the old Colt tumbled from his grasp, landing on the ground, just out of his reach. But Josiah wasn’t done. He brought his knee up, catching the man’s groin with enough force to knock the lungs out of a longhorn. The Mexican screamed and tumbled backward.

  Josiah didn’t hesitate. He pulled his gun and fired without thinking of the consequences, unloading all six shots on the Mexican. There was enough information to know what to do. Shoot first and ask questions later; follow his own advice. Only Josiah knew the most important answer. Cortina was coming for him. The day would come when they would face each other, but as far as Josiah was concerned, today was not that day. Scrap and Tom Darkson came running, coming to a stop next to Josiah as he kneeled down and began to strip the dead Mexican of his knives and bullets.

  “Hot damn, Wolfe,” Tom Darkson said, “what the heck happened?”

  “He was waiting for me, looking to take to me to Cortina.”

  “Looks like you sent him to hell,” Scrap said.

  Josiah shrugged. “Just saved my own skin.”

  “Cortina ain’t gonna give up,” Darkson said.

  “He will someday,” Josiah said. “Either him and me will face down, or something else will stop the man. He can’t dodge every bullet that comes his way. But we need to keep a sharper eye out. This might have been the man I saw on the hill, following after us, or there might be more, set on stopping us from reaching Austin to finish the mission McNelly assigned us.”

  Both Scrap and Darkson nodded in agreement.

  “You gonna bury him?” Scrap asked.

  Josiah shook his head no. “The coyotes can have him.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Morning came and went without incident, or the sound of another coyote yip. For all Josiah knew, it could have actually been one of the animals. But he still wasn’t sure the Mexican was on his own.

  He would be on the lookout for any sign that they were being tracked. If there were any Apache, too, which was always a worry in this country, then they would wait until the most opportune time to attack—and if that happened, Josiah was determined to be prepared. As much as possible, anyway. The three men combined, injured and fatigued as they all were, probably equaled one good man—against countless Apache, or more of Cortina’s men. It would hardly be a fair fight, if another one came their way.

  Scrap came off watch as the blazing red sun poked up over the horizon. The relief of weather from the day before was not going to be an ongoing gift. It was already growing warm and humid, and without any sign of clouds, the coming day would surely be a scorcher.

  After a decent breakfast of hard biscuits, bacon, and coffee, supplied for the trip by Captain McNelly, the three men packed up silently and continued on toward San Antonio.

  As with any long journey, they were falling into a routine. Tom Darkson took the lead without orders, and Scrap hung back, trailing behind the wagon about fifty yards. Josiah was as comfortable as he was going to be driving the wagon. He was determined to hold the reins of responsibility for Juan Carlos’s body for as long as he could. There might be some point, though, when he would consider trading off with Scrap, putting his tired butt in the comfort of a saddle.

  The only one of them who seemed to mind the arrangement was Clipper. The Appaloosa was none too happy about being tied behind the wagon, forced to tag along instead of ride at a hearty pace. Occasionally the horse would try to stop, or pull back with a whinny and a snort. A couple of times along the way, when they were stopped to water the horses and themselves, Clipper tried to kick Josiah. He just avoided the cross Appaloosa as much as possible, and tried to understand that being tied, instead of running free, would put any creature in a bad mood.

  There was little to do on the trip other than keep an eye out for the Apache or Cortina’s men. Any traveler was suspect when it came right down to it. But there were very few of them. Towns were sparse, too, and when the three men came across them, they just passed through. The coffin garnered some curiosity, but Josiah was accustomed to that. He’d experienced the same kind of scrutiny when he’d taken Captain Fikes back to Austin.

  This trip didn’t feel the same. Tom Darkson’s presence changed things. But so did the fact that Captain Fikes had been murdered, and his killer had been on the loose during the entire trip back to Austin.

  Josiah had plenty to be concerned about. Not Charlie Langdon or his gang, though. And hopefully the farther away from the Gulf of Mexico they got, the less he would have to worry about Juan Cortina.

  He pushed on at the thought of his own safety, urging the nameless horse who pulled the wagon to speed up and get them out of range even quicker.

  * * *

  Much to Tom Darkson’s disappointment, they did not stop in San Antonio for the night. There would be no hot bath in the Menger, or some sordid connection made with a soiled dove. Darkson would have to restrain himself until they arrived in Austin. What he did then was up to him. Instead, they stopped briefly at a mercantile, stocked up on some coffee, which was the only supply they were running short on, and then stopped at the telegraph office to check and see if there were any messages. There weren’t any.

  Five days into the trip, they had not seen one Apache or a Mexican set on revenge. Any threat from the raid on Cortina seemed to have been left behind . . . the only thing remaining was the scars they all carried, and the cargo in the back of the wagon.

  It was good to see the familiarity of the Hill Country as they made their way north of San Antonio. It was a trip Josiah had made more than once, so he knew the good places to stop, where to hunt, and what to expect.

  New Braunfels, or Neu-Braunfels as the Germans called it and originally named it, was where they had stopped with Captain Fikes, where they had found an undertaker who deposited the body in a coffin. There would be no need for such a thing on this trip. But he might stop a
nd pay his respects. It would be nice to see a new face.

  Scrap and Tom Darkson seemed to have run out of things to talk about. The campfires in the evenings were quiet, almost despondent. Neither of them carried, or played, a musical instrument. There was just storytelling, and that had fallen flat from the lack of natural talent or lack of resources, because they, neither one, had a clue how to talk about anything other than themselves. The quiet was not necessarily objectionable to Josiah, but the trip had been long, and his own ailments and silent thinking had started to wear on him.

  The undertaker in New Braunfels had moved on, and the marshal of the town had died suddenly, just sitting at his desk one day. According to the new marshal, a young man with a limp, not much older than Scrap, named Lester Wilson, the previous marshal just keeled over his plate of beans one evening and that was that.

  Tom Darkson, of course, was hopeful of spending enough time in the town to seek a moment of female companionship, but not knowing anyone in New Braunfels left Josiah a little cold and anxious to get back on the trail north. Darkson took the lead in a huff, but Josiah didn’t mind. He could almost smell Austin in the air.

  San Marcos came and went, and there was little traffic to contend with, no heavy cattle drives pushing up to Dallas, or farther, to Abilene, so the driving was easy enough, especially on the parched trail. It had sprinkled a few times along the way, but there had been no rain to speak of. The land needed it, and so did the streams, but there was still green in the grasses and water in the creeks. That wouldn’t last long though. A drought was settling in.

  Scrap seemed a little anxious the final morning out. They had packed their gear but were in the process of clearing camp when Josiah noticed. “You all right, Elliot?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” Scrap kicked dirt over the waning coals of the fire.

  “You sure don’t act fine,” Josiah said.

  Tom Darkson had learned to give Scrap a wide swath when he was in a mood. They’d almost come to blows a couple of times on the trip, but had backed off on their own, without any interference from Josiah. Tom stood next to his horse, waiting for the signal to mount.

  “Guess I ain’t lookin’ forward to bein’ back in Austin. I like bein’ away.”

  Josiah glanced to the north quickly. There was nothing but open country for as far as the eye could see, but he knew they were close. “I like it, too. But there’s people for us both to see while we’re there.”

  “Not me,” Scrap said.

  Josiah started to say something but noticed Scrap staring angrily at Tom Darkson. He knew then that he would have to have a talk with him, and warn him not to go to Blanche Dumont’s house—or mention an intended visit to the soiled doves there, in front of Scrap. The last thing the boy needed to hear was that Darkson had taken up with Myra Lynn for an hour. There’d be a fight for sure.

  “Well,” Josiah said, “maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  “I doubt it,” Scrap answered. “I sure do doubt it.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Austin rose up in the distance as if an image deep out of Josiah’s memory had come to life.

  There had been times on the trip south when he was certain that he would never see the city again. That his death was as certain as the coffin that sat securely bound in the back of the wagon. But that had not happened. Josiah had survived. Not only the scouting trip to Arroyo, the battle with Cortina’s men, but the fight with the lone Mexican on the journey back, as well.

  Josiah stopped the wagon and waited for Scrap to catch up with him. “Let’s ride in together, Elliot.”

  “Suits me.” Scrap whistled, causing Tom Darkson to come to a stop and look back. Scrap motioned for him to stop, and he did.

  Darkson waited for them to catch up, then the three of them headed north down a slight valley and across the slow-running Colorado River.

  Surprisingly, the hustle and bustle of Congress Avenue, once they made it there, was music to Josiah’s ears.

  The sun was shining brightly, as expected on a late-June morning in the heart of Texas. The heat of the day had not fully set in, but it almost certainly would—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Summer droned on, but the air was comfortable, with the wind easing down from the northwest, instead of flowing up from the south. Now that the city was a reality, the ocean, from where the wind usually came, was only a memory, best to be forgotten. If that were possible.

  The business of the capital city was in full swing. Wagons and horses clogged the dry, dusty street. People walked three abreast on the boardwalk, coming and going from restaurants, shops, and lawyers’ offices. A Butterfield stagecoach sat waiting in front of a hotel, and deep in the distance, a train whistled as it rumbled out of Austin, heading west for the Arizona Territory.

  Scrap rode on the left side of the wagon, while Darkson took up the right. They kept an easy, even trot, and both men sat up straight in their saddles and kept their faces free of emotion. They were stoic and proud, yet respectful to the cargo they were escorting.

  Josiah maintained the same posture, well aware that the coffin would draw attention the moment they’d headed up Congress Avenue.

  He had thought about riding into town under the cover of darkness, knowing with certainty that he was recognizable, his face known by a lot of folks in Austin, and not held in high regard. The fact that he was carting home another dead man would set tongues a-wagging. His past reputation as a killer would be revisited. He was sure of it. But he knew that there was no avoiding the eventual outcome. It didn’t matter whether he came into town in the dark or the light of day, he would have to answer some painful questions . . . at least from Pearl. He tried not to care what the rest of the city thought, but it was impossible not to when it affected those that he loved as well as himself.

  “Where we headin’?” Tom Darkson asked.

  “I figure the best thing we can do is take the coffin to the undertaker’s, then you’ll be free to go about your business,” Josiah said.

  Scrap cast Darkson a slight look, then glanced down the street. His gaze settled on the capitol building. It’s dome glimmered like it was a temple. And maybe it was, to democracy, but no God that Josiah knew of walked its halls. He was glad of that for the moment.

  Darkson nodded. “That’s a fine plan. But what comes after that? We’re still Rangers, ain’t we?”

  “Sure we are,” Josiah said. “I’ve got some letters to deliver to General Steele. I’m sure he’ll have orders for us, whether McNelly included them or not. You just need to let me know where to find you. We’ll be back in the saddle, one way or another. This isn’t the end of anything other than Juan Carlos’s journey to the grave next to his brother.”

  “I don’t know much about Austin,” Darkson said.

  Scrap cleared his throat. “There’s a workingman’s hotel just around the corner from the livery where Wolfe keeps his horse. I’ll bunk there. Why don’t you, too, so it’s easy for Wolfe to find us when we head back to the boys?”

  “If that’s what we do,” Josiah said.

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Scrap said.

  “I don’t know what McNelly or Steele has in mind for us.”

  “I ain’t gonna be a spy again, Wolfe. Look what happened to us this time. You barely made it out alive.”

  “It’s duty, Scrap.”

  “I ain’t enlisted in nothin’. You can’t desert from the Rangers. You just quit.”

  “You’re free to walk away anytime,” Josiah said.

  Scrap shrugged, and silently agreed with Josiah. At least that was what Josiah thought his silence meant.

  “That workingman’s hotel?” Darkson interrupted. “They got a bath?”

  “No,” Scrap said. “But there’s a barber, and a bathhouse around the corner.”

  Tom Darkson smiled broadly. “Good, I’ll be needin’ both.”

 
It was Josiah’s turn to toss a silent glance. He’d had a talk with Darkson about Scrap’s sister, so there was no misunderstanding. Josiah wanted to be free of conflict between the two boys, drop the coffin off at the undertaker, seek out Pearl, and then head home to see his son, Lyle, before making his way to General Steele’s office.

  As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait too long to find Pearl Fikes.

  He had just crossed the intersection of Congress and Pecan, when he looked up to see her walking out of the Sampson & Hendrik’s Dry Goods store, arm in arm with Rory Farnsworth.

  CHAPTER 53

  Pearl Fikes recognized Josiah almost at the same moment he spotted her. She stopped dead in her tracks, her face draining pale as a sheet instantly. Rory Farnsworth, the sheriff of Travis County, which encompassed all of Austin, had kept on walking a step or two, until he felt the obvious tug and turned around toward Pearl to see what the problem was. His happy-go-lucky casual expression faded away just as quickly as Pearl’s had when his gaze landed on Josiah, driving a wagon into town with a coffin loaded in the back.

  Josiah brought the single horse pulling the wagon to a stop in the middle of Congress Avenue. The street was arid, and just braking kicked up a poof of dust. He could taste nothing but dirt, and oddly he was glad for it since it washed away the distaste in his mouth that had erupted upon seeing Pearl with Rory Farnsworth. He was immediately angry, jealous, and after a long breath, not surprised at all by the pairing.

  There was little time to consider any other emotions. Rory Farnsworth broke away from Pearl, and marched directly to the side of the wagon.

  “What is the meaning of this, Wolfe?”

  Farnsworth was shorter than Josiah, and he stood dressed in his dandiest clothes, out and about courting as he was. He looked more like a Yankee carpetbagger than a Texas sheriff. The recent business with his father, a banker, who had been found guilty of murdering four soiled doves, had obviously not affected his financial standing or position in society. If it had, he wasn’t showing it.