Without warning, Little Shirt brought his horse and Josiah’s adopted ride to a sudden stop, the Peacemaker still aimed at Josiah’s head. Little Shirt raised the barrel and pulled the trigger.
The blast nearly shattered Josiah’s eardrums as the bullet whizzed by his temple, barely missing him.
The bullet was so close he felt the breeze and energy of it, felt the reverberation of the report, could taste and smell the gunpowder. Breathing was like eating fire; his throat was immediately raw.
For a second, Josiah Wolfe thought he was a dead man.
Only then did he realize how foolish he’d been, allowing his anger to get the best of him.
His life did not flash before him. He had been in too many tough spots for that to happen. Sometimes, he was certain that death was riding sidesaddle along with him. The ghosts of his past, his wife Lily and their three daughters, trailing after him in an ethereal form, biting at the bit, waiting on the chance for a long overdue reunion. It was nonsense, the thought of eternity with those that he had loved and lost, but at the moment, the fleeting thought of it gave him an odd bit of comfort.
Big Shirt screamed back at Little Shirt in Comanche.
Whatever was said forced the Indian to drop his aim. It sounded like gibberish. A coyote calling in the evening for its mate. A snarling cougar, set on its prey, cornering it, offering the weaker opponent one last moment to consider escape. There was nothing about the Comanche language that Josiah found beautiful or lyrical. It was all hate and anger. Especially now.
“I am stopping him, Josiah Wolfe. You are not to be killed, or we will be killed,” Big Shirt said.
Josiah cocked his head. How odd was it that the Indians had received nearly the same order he had—bring them back alive. But for what? And why?
“Why did O’Reilly put you up to this?” Josiah forced the words out of his dry mouth, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.
The cloud of gun smoke wafted away behind them, slowly dissipating into nothingness. The ringing in his ears continued, though, providing enough evidence of the shot for him to continue on.
“I have no reason to answer your questions,” Big Shirt said. “But know if you try to escape, or attempt to provoke my brother again, I will shoot you myself and suffer the consequences. We are not far from our destination. If you run, you will be caught, and you will die a slow, painful death. The vultures will tear at your skin as you take your last breath. That is my promise. Do you understand?”
Josiah thought about spitting at Big Shirt, but quickly thought better of it. Big Shirt and Little Shirt were brothers. That was news. They didn’t look anything alike. “What are your names?” Josiah demanded, not taking his eyes off his Peacemaker that now rested tightly on Little Shirt’s hip.
“There is no need for names. We will not be friends, Josiah Wolfe,” Big Shirt said. “You can count on that.”
The killing of Red Overmeyer was not the first time Josiah had witnessed the death of a fellow Texas Ranger at the hands of an Indian, nor did he expect it to be the last.
Even though he had known Red a short time, since July, when Josiah had first joined the company of Rangers at the Red River camp, he’d considered Red a friend as much as a partner on the trail, and had been more than glad to have him at his side on the mission assigned to him by Pete Feders.
Overmeyer was trustworthy, or seemed to be in the short time they had known each other. Josiah had never detected a lie, or even a hint of dishonesty, in their many conversations. The man was a handy scout, as well, but this time out, the tracking skills that had led to a long and productive life, if it were to be judged by the oversized belly Red sported and the tales he told, had failed to detect Big Shirt’s brother.
At the moment, Red Overmeyer seemed to have suffered the harshest punishment possible for his failure, and there was no way to know what had happened to Scrap, or what lay ahead for Josiah.
He had no idea where they were heading—they had gone north, then northwest. The old Corn Trail was not that far away, a military supply road that would lead right up to the town of Comanche—settled and occupied by Anglos, not Indians, so Josiah thought that Big Shirt and Little Shirt would probably avoid that town at all costs.
Unless, of course, they had left their band and joined up with Liam O’Reilly and his gang—which was the implication, since they knew who Josiah was and had specific knowledge of O’Reilly and his wicked demeanor.
Still, the two Comanche had not declared allegiance with the man they called the Badger. O’Reilly’s name could have been a ruse to instill fear in him—which, if that were the case, was a mistake. All the Irishman’s name did was provoke anger, and the only fear Josiah had was of losing control of his actions again.
The two Comanche brothers had drawn Josiah in even tighter with a rope around his waist tied to Big Shirt’s horse.
Little Shirt had control of the rope that held Josiah’s hands, as well as the reins to the chestnut mare.
Josiah missed being on Clipper’s back. He had ridden the tall Appaloosa for several years now, and the horse knew his touch as well as any horse could. It was like they were one full being when they rode together, especially under duress. Josiah was certain that Clipper could read his mind, know when to turn before Josiah knew he was even going to turn, or cut when the call for a quick escape demanded it. But now Josiah was on his own. The mare he was riding did not respond to the pressure of his knees or the sharp jabs of his boot heels. He could have been a dead man for all the horse seemed to care. It understood Comanche, not English.
In the past, there had been a few times Josiah had been left to his own devices. Even as a member of the Texas Brigade, he had rarely found himself so ill-equipped to save himself. He had fought hand to hand next to Charlie Langdon, the former, and now dead, leader of the gang Liam O’Reilly was a member of, and had possibly re-formed and now headed up.
The men of the Brigade were the first men into battle and the last out. Josiah had seen so much blood and death that his own perception of mortality had been tried and tested on multiple occasions—preparing him for this very moment, for what lay ahead.
Getting out of his current situation alive, intact, and healthy seemed unlikely unless he stumbled across a windfall. And luck was not something Josiah Wolfe was accustomed to having on his side. He wished he had acquired the vice of gambling. At least then he could figure his odds.
He was stuck with his own survival skills, which were far from weak, though they went unused in many cases. Even recently, a man named Juan Carlos had saved Josiah in San Antonio, and was still on the run for killing the man that would have killed Josiah—one of Charlie Langdon’s men sent to settle their ongoing feud and stop Charlie from being escorted to the hangman’s noose. The noose finally came, though, and much to Josiah’s regret, he had not been there to see Charlie Langdon dangle at the end of the rope.
It was hard to say where Juan Carlos was now.
The fact was that Juan Carlos was a Mexican, a Mexican to the Anglo world, but half-Anglo if the truth was known. As relevant as Juan Carlos’s heroic actions seemed in San Antonio, in the last few months, since joining the Frontier Battalion, Josiah had been saved by more men than he could count. These included Scrap Elliot and his expert aim and sharp-shooting, not once but twice saving not only Josiah’s life, but that of Josiah’s two-year-old son, Lyle, too.
The suddenness of Josiah’s disregard for his own life when he’d spit at Little Shirt was a surprise to him.
Lyle would be left an orphan, left to face an uncertain world without anyone to show him how to be a man, a Wolfe. There was no way Josiah was going to let that happen. So he castigated himself silently, remembering the hard lessons his own father had taught him, lessons that Josiah couldn’t have learned otherwise, like picking good, solid friends and standing up for them, and for yourself, when times got tough—like now.
The last several months had been difficult, moving to Austin, not knowing
anyone, and sleeping in a lonely bed by himself. Mostly it had been difficult being away from Lyle. It seemed like he was always working his way back to his son, at least since rejoining the Rangers. Somehow, that needed to change—if Josiah survived, was able to make it back home, one more time. Or it would be a sad certainty that Lyle would grow up alone, never knowing what had become of his father.
There had been outlaw trouble in the town of Comanche earlier in the spring. John Wesley Hardin had been in town celebrating his twenty-first birthday, and a deputy sheriff recognized the noted gunfighter. When Hardin asked the deputy if he knew who he was, the deputy, a man named Charlie Webb, lied and said he didn’t. Instead, Webb followed Hardin into a saloon for a drink, pretending to be part of the celebration, and pulled his gun on the outlaw, intent on taking Hardin down. But one of Hardin’s friends saw the ploy play out and yelled out to warn the criminal. John Wesley Hardin killed Charlie Webb at close range, then ran out of town like a cockroach encountering sudden daylight.
A lynch mob was quickly formed, and most of Hardin’s family was taken into protective custody—to save them from the angry townspeople. But a group of men, supposed loyal, law-abiding citizens hiding under the cover of darkness, broke into the jail where the family was being held and pulled out Hardin’s brother, Joe, and two cousins. All three men were hanged without the luxury of a trial, and it is said they were all hanged with a rope too long, the promise of a slow, strangulating death more than certain, since all three men had grass between their toes when they were discovered the next day.
So Josiah was more than surprised when their trio topped a slight, treeless, rise, and the town of Comanche sat in the middle of the road, about a mile away.
Embers from the troubles in the spring still burned among the townsfolk, even though Hardin had fled, reportedly out of Texas, to Florida. But there were rumors of revenge from the remaining Hardin family, against the ruthless tyrants of so-called justice, for the senseless killing of Joe and the cousins.
The town was small, a supply base for the surrounding ranches. There was a courthouse built of hand-hewn log; a small post office since the town was the county seat; a dry goods, and a general store; along with the expected livery, blacksmith, and jail. Several wood frame houses sat along a couple of dry, dirt streets. Rain was obviously an event of long memories—perhaps winter would be a relief and bring a spattering of much needed precipitation to the parched town. Snow was shared only in imaginations and once every hundred years or so, this far west.
A dog barked in the distance. The sun fell below the horizon, and a wind picked up, swirling dust into tiny, harmless, cyclones. A chill touched Josiah’s face, and he shivered from the sudden burst of cool air—a reminder that it was November, that a change in seasons was under way, no matter how brief or unnoticeable that change would be.
Little Shirt pressed his mustang paint closer to Josiah’s mare. “Listen, Ranger, one wrong move and I’ll kill you. Right in front of the sheriff. He’s not going to do nothing. You understand?”
“He’s warning you not to shout out, Wolfe. He won’t kill you.” Big Shirt cast an angry glance at Little Shirt. “But we know your name—you remember?”
Josiah nodded.
“We also,” Big Shirt continued, “know of your little house in Austin, and the wet nurse, Ofelia, who tends to your only son.”
“I will kill you both the first chance I get if anything happens to my family,” Josiah said through clenched teeth. Instinct demanded that he reach for his gun and end this game now, but the ropes were so tight on his wrists that he could barely wiggle his fingers. He felt a throbbing pulse from his fingernails to his toes.
Little Shirt laughed. “Mexicans are not family, Wolfe. You are Anglo through and through. What are you thinking?”
Josiah ignored the taunt. His mouth was foaming like that of a rabid dog.
“You will be free of us soon enough, Josiah Wolfe,” Big Shirt said. “We will collect our reward and be on our way.”
“Your reward?” Josiah demanded. “Why is there a reward?”
This time Big Shirt laughed—only it was a slight, knowing laugh with the turn of a lip instead of the deep antagonizing laugh of his brother. “You did not know that you are a wanted man, Josiah Wolfe? What a shame. You do now.”
CHAPTER 4
Evening was settling in as the trio eased into the town of Comanche at a slow gait, taking full advantage of the falling shadows and thick gray light.
It would have made sense for them to ride right down the main street to the sheriff’s office if what Big Shirt had said was true, that Josiah was a wanted man, but that was not the track that the Indian brothers took leading their prisoner into the quiet, almost dead, town. They avoided the main street and cut down the first alley they came to, coming to a stop directly behind the Tall Gate Saloon.
The thought of being a wanted man played heavily on Josiah’s mind—but not as heavily as remaining a captive of the two Comanche, who he figured were loyalists to the Badger. Whether they wanted to admit it or not.
He’d encountered Liam O’Reilly, briefly, at a distance, in Waco in July, riding with a posse of deputies. Word was the sheriff had been bought out, was operating at the will of an outlaw gang, most likely O’Reilly’s. Hiding behind the badge was not an unusual ploy for the despicable and unworthy—so it came as no surprise to Josiah that O’Reilly had worked his way into Waco after Charlie Langdon’s demise.
When Josiah was a marshal himself, Langdon had taken up a lawman’s position as a deputy, taking advantage of their friendship and the bonds that had been created fighting together in the Texas Brigade—all for the power, or the perception of power, that being a lawman offered.
Charlie had quickly twisted that power into an ugliness that led to the deaths of four innocent people—and from there he had gone on an all-out rampage, with disregard for the law and justice itself. Charlie had been a great soldier, excelling at killing the enemy. So it was entirely possible that Langdon had clued in his protégé, O’Reilly, to use the badge and hide behind it, as well.
But what if there was an unknown warrant, a wanted poster with Josiah’s face on it? he wondered silently to himself. Would being a member of the Texas Rangers save him from prosecution?
He knew the answer to that question before it had completely vanished from his mind. The answer was a resounding no.
There would be no protection against the law, not if a crime was provable—even though Josiah could think of nothing that he had done in the recent past for which he would be considered culpable. He had plenty of enemies, though, enemies who would see him harmed any way they could—and, of course, O’Reilly fell right into that bunch.
“You get down easy, now, Josiah Wolfe,” Little Shirt said.
Josiah sneered at the Indian. He could smell the sour yeast permeating from the kegs sitting along the back wall of the Tall Gate Saloon. “How much am I worth to you, little man?”
Big Shirt swiftly intervened, saying something to Little Shirt in a calm but forceful voice, in their native Indian tongue, then: “As for you, Wolfe, we are finished.”
“You didn’t have to kill Overmeyer,” Josiah said, again, trying to get Big Shirt to tell him why the tracker had been killed.
“You do not know what I had to do, or why. Perhaps you never will. It does not matter to you. My duty is done, and I can get back to my own life now.”
“Back to stealing cattle and killing white men?”
“You think too little of the Comanche.”
“A war is coming.”
“It is already here,” Big Shirt said, pulling his rifle, a war-era model 1865 Spencer .56-50 carbine, out of the scabbard and pointing it at Josiah’s head. “Get him down off the horse, brother, before I decide to end his war myself, with a pull of the trigger.”
Josiah took a deep breath but tried not to show any movement.
He was sitting stiffly on the back of the angry chestnut mare, watc
hing everything around him, scanning for an opportunity and a way out of the mess he’d found himself in—other than a swift death.
A ramp led up to the entrance of the back of the saloon. Lamps already burned brightly in the cathouse windows upstairs—business was slow. There were three floors, and all of the windows on the top floor were encased in heavy iron bars.
The building wasn’t a jail. The windows were barred so the whores wouldn’t flee after they had completed their nightly routines. A lot of the women did not choose to stay in the occupation they found themselves in. They were forced into a kind of slavery that Josiah thought was far worse than just about anything he could imagine. Some women were even chained to their beds after their work was done, so they could not escape.
For a brief second, Josiah let his mind wander, forgetting for a moment any opportunity for his own escape, as he thought of two whores he’d known in the last few months.
One he’d slept with, Suzanne del Toro, dead now, killed at the hand of her own brother—she was a victim of greed and jealousy. Suzanne had shown Josiah a moment of comfort and offered herself to him as a woman, not a professional, when he needed it the most. He was still troubled by her death, but only because he knew he could have loved her in a way he had never thought possible. But that was never to be, now that her charred bones lay buried in a cemetery outside of Austin.
The other whore, Maudie Mae Johnson, was a woman Josiah and Scrap had rescued on their way to the Red River camp to join up with the Frontier Battalion, in July, when Josiah had encountered Liam O’Reilly the last time.
Mae, as she liked to be called, was a mad cat full of sharp claws, but she also had a tender side that showed when you least expected it. She was one of the most confounding women Josiah had ever met. He suspected the girl was sick—sick with the disease of whores—but he wasn’t sure.
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