Lady Mead had proven to be a comfortable ride right out of the gate. The mare was no replacement for Clipper, but she would do—at least for getting him down the muddy road to meet his fate, and hopefully beyond.
The Spencer was tucked lightly into the scabbard, and Josiah took this as the first opportunity to handle Charlie Webb’s Colt Frontier.
The six-shooter handled fine and felt comfortable in his hand. Still, there was a hesitation in Josiah’s grip. The fact that he was wearing a set of dead man’s clothes, riding his horse, and holding his gun did not fail to escape his attention. He figured that, from a distance, he just might look like Charlie Webb’s ghost, come back from the great beyond to claim his revenge.
It was not a thought he relished, being mistaken for a ghost. But it just might help throw O’Reilly, or his thugs, off Josiah’s trail long enough for him to get to the sheriff’s office—which was his plan. The other side of things was a bit uglier. It wouldn’t take much for anybody to figure out where Josiah had re-outfitted himself. Somehow, he had to manage to keep Billie Webb safe.
The only way he knew to do that was to stay alive. Which was the other part of his plan. He wasn’t sure how that was going to happen. Just that it had to.
A mangy black-and-white dog ran from behind the first house Josiah passed and started barking its fool head off. The door to the house was open, and so were the windows. Pale blue curtains flipped in the breeze, and other than the dog, the house was silent.
The sun beamed down from overhead, the cold thrust of yesterday’s rain a thing of the past. The day was warm, especially by November standards. Sweat beaded under the brim of Josiah’s felt Stetson—his own—and the clothes he was wearing felt itchy against his skin. They still held a hint of lye in them, and mixed with the heat and the task he was riding into, the smell made him more nervous and uncomfortable than he already was.
The Colt Frontier was loaded and ready. Josiah usually wore a swivel rig, but Charlie preferred a Mexican loop holster. Another odd choice, akin to the lack of a Winchester, but the Mexican holster was functional, though it told nothing of Charlie’s past or the reasoning for his choices. Not that it mattered.
What was really important was that Josiah remember the limitations of the simple holster when the time came to use the gun. It really wasn’t much more than a piece of tanned cowhide with a couple of nails holding it together.
Josiah shooed away the dog, annoyed at the alarm it was raising on the outskirts of town, but oddly, as he looked ahead, down the wide and muddy main street, the town seemed nearly vacant.
There were a couple of horses tied up in front of the saloon, and one in front of the Darcy Hotel, but no traffic coming and going. The Butterfield had probably come and gone, since it was past mid-morning, but it was unsettling not to see one soul, man or woman, making their way to and fro on the boardwalk.
Josiah kneed Lady Mead a bit, bringing her up to a trot to get past the dog. He scanned the tops of the buildings for lookouts and saw nothing, all the while easing the Spencer out of the scabbard and chambering a round.
He passed by a few more empty houses, and a chill ran down his spine. It felt like he had just ridden into a town besieged by some quick-acting sickness. Like it was a ghost town, even though Josiah knew better.
The heart of Comanche came up pretty quickly, and Josiah slowed the palomino to an easy gait. He headed straight for the sheriff’s office, which was easy enough to find, since it was two doors down from the saloon.
He eased off the horse, all of his senses fully engaged. It felt like he was walking right into the heart of the land of Yankees without one soldier backing him up. The grip he held on the rifle was tight, but not so tight that it would hinder his aim or reaction if need be. The Spencer was an unknown and untrusted friend going into certain battle.
Just then, a man with a shaggy beard stumbled out of the bar. He stopped and stared at Josiah. “Hey stranger, you’re late.”
“Late for what, friend?” Josiah said.
“Bill Clarmont’s funeral,” the man said with a slur.
Josiah felt his heart skip a beat—or, at least, it felt like it. He’d killed Bill Clarmont. He was holding the dead man’s rifle. The whole town was probably at the man’s funeral, which explained the silence and the absence of commerce.
The shaggy man stroked his beard and steadied himself on one of the batwing doors to the saloon. “You look familiar.”
Josiah stiffened. “I’m just passing through. Thought I’d stop in and speak with the sheriff.”
“Well, he ought to be out at the cemetery, but that there’s his horse.”
“I’ll just wait in the office for him to return then,” Josiah said.
In the distance, a church bell tolled. Doom and finality carried on an unseen wind and the rays of sunshine. They’d obviously had to wait out the downpour to bury Bill Clarmont.
“Suit yourself. I’m not one for funerals myself.”
Josiah nodded and pushed into the sheriff’s office, the Spencer still in his grip. He took a deep breath and blinked his eyes, shocked at what he was seeing.
The sheriff, Roy something or other, Josiah hadn’t picked up on the man’s last name, was sitting in the chair at his desk, his head thrown completely back, a fresh bullet hole centered square in the man’s forehead. Blood was still dripping on the floor.
The jail cells were empty, and all of the doors were standing wide open.
CHAPTER 14
A loud rush of noise out in the street—horses running at full speed—drew Josiah’s attention away from the dead man. The thundering hooves were quickly followed by gunshots. There was nothing Josiah could do for the sheriff, so he dashed to the window.
Three men on horses sped past the sheriff’s office, heading north, the opposite direction from which Josiah had come into town.
He recognized the three men immediately.
Liam O’Reilly and the Comanche brothers, Big Shirt and Little Shirt. They had bags thrown over their laps. Money bags, full and bulging.
Instead of rushing to the door, Josiah pulled the Spencer up and shot straight through the window.
Shattering glass exploded across the sill, but Josiah was ready for the fallout of his action; he dodged back quickly, dancing away from the shards as best he could, then returned to the window for another shot once the glass fell to the ground.
The three horses ran at a quick gallop, the muddy street holding them back slightly, but not slowing them enough for Josiah to get a great shot. There was a waterfall of mud flying behind the horses, globs hitting the ground in thumps, like someone was throwing muddy bombs from the roof of every building they passed. Two more breaths, and they’d be out of town, out of range—gone.
Josiah’s second shot closed the deal.
Little Shirt tumbled off his horse, screaming, yelling words into the wind that only the breezes and his brother understood, his hand going for his blood-splattered shoulder rather than his gun.
The other two riders didn’t even slow down, didn’t offer to turn back and help if they could. Josiah didn’t expect them to. He just hoped to get another shot off to stop them. He pulled the trigger on the second breath—the range too far, the shot too rushed to hit its target: the back of Liam O’Reilly’s gnarly red head.
Little Shirt’s horse reared back at the sound of the third shot, screaming and neighing wildly, frightened and confused by all the blasts, pulls, and tussles. Little Shirt had crashed into the mud, toppling without control, coming to a stop just shy of the boardwalk, stunned and injured—though how badly was hard to tell.
Josiah rushed out the door, putting himself behind Lady Mead. He had two shots left with the rifle, then the Spencer would become useless to him. At least, for the moment. So he had to make the shots count.
O’Reilly was certainly out of range, but still in sight.
The enraged Irishman was now fully aware of what had happened, though Josiah wasn’t sure if the o
utlaw knew that he had been the one to take down Little Shirt. It didn’t matter, other than making sure Billie Webb was free of retribution, so Josiah kept himself covered behind the horse.
They had been going in the opposite direction from Billie’s house, so that was an immediate relief. O’Reilly was no fool. He would want to get as far away from Comanche as possible while the whole town was at the funeral. At least, Josiah hoped that was the case.
Josiah decided to try one last shot, so he laid the rifle across the horse’s back, propped it up over his wrist, and sighted on O’Reilly, rays glaring off his red hair, making his head glow like a setting sun on the horizon.
Just as he was about to pull the trigger, out of the corner of his eye Josiah saw Little Shirt begin to move. The Comanche was struggling for the gun in his holster, staring at Josiah angrily, muttering words that no one could understand.
Josiah had no choice but to pull his aim off O’Reilly. He turned the barrel toward the Indian and pulled the trigger, certain and intent on killing yet another man.
There was not an ounce of regret careening through Josiah’s body as he took the shot.
His heart was racing with anger and rage—the score almost settled now for the deaths of Red Overmeyer and the sheriff.
The only recent death that caused Josiah any moral concern at all was that of the deputy, Bill Clarmont, but he could trace that occurrence back to Little Shirt’s action as well. If Josiah hadn’t been apprehended for a bogus reward on his head that O’Reilly had brokered with the sheriff, then he would never have stepped a foot into Comanche in the first place, and Bill Clarmont would still be alive. Who knew what side of the law Clarmont really worked? It was hard to say, and perhaps impossible to ever know.
All Josiah knew was that he was in the town of Comanche unbidden, forced there against his will, by the two brothers and their obvious allegiance to Liam O’Reilly.
This next bullet caught Little Shirt at the very base of his throat. His head jerked back, nearly ripped off with the sudden tear of flesh.
Blood sprayed every which way it could, a spiderweb of red fluid contrasting on the dark brown mud of the road. The sickening sound of certain death had probably been heard from a half a block away.
This time Little Shirt fell straight back into the mud, unmoving after the fall.
When Josiah looked back up, Liam O’Reilly and Big Shirt were about to vanish over the horizon. The shot was lost. It would be a waste of a bullet, and he didn’t have the luxury to waste any.
Chasing after the two men now seemed like a ride into more uncertainty, and he’d had enough uncertainty in the last few days to last him a good long time.
The two outlaws had the advantage of knowing the land and of having a full cadre of weapons, fully loaded, unlike Josiah, who only had one cartridge left in the Spencer and a belt full of bullets for the Colt Frontier.
He eased out from behind Lady Mead, who had handled the rifle fire with grace and courage, hardly wincing at all when Josiah fired the final shot that had ended Little Shirt’s life. Or at least he assumed that the Indian was dead. He still wasn’t going to take any chances.
The round in the Spencer was chambered, and each step Josiah took toward Little Shirt was heavy with caution.
Somewhere in the distance a woman screamed.
The scream came from the direction of the bank, and that did not surprise Josiah in the least.
Once he made sure that the Indian was truly dead, he’d go investigate. But not until he was certain he’d been as successful as he thought.
The only Comanche he trusted was a dead Comanche.
The door to the bank was standing wide open, and a woman dressed all in black was bent over the floor, her back to Josiah. She was crying over a man in a brown tweed suit. A pair of eyeglasses lay shattered on the floor not too far from the man. A pool of blood surrounded the man’s body.
There was no one else in the bank, at least as far as Josiah could tell. He’d left the Spencer behind, secured in the scabbard on Lady Mead’s saddle, but for safety’s sake, he had the Colt Frontier in his hand, loaded and ready.
Josiah was reasonably certain there was only a trio of outlaws, one dead, two on the run, but he couldn’t be completely sure O’Reilly didn’t have more men in Comanche, staying behind to do whatever meanness they could muster.
The vault door just past the tellers’ cages was standing wide open. O’Reilly had robbed the bank while everyone was at Bill Clarmont’s funeral.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Josiah said, stepping slowly into the bank.
The woman jerked her head back, startled. She immediately put her hands into the air, in fear.
“You have nothing to be afraid of, ma’am. I’m a Ranger. I’m here to help.”
“How do I know that’s true?”
Josiah nodded, emptied the bullets of the six-shooter into his hand, holstered the Colt, then raised his hands to the side away from his belt. “I mean you no harm.”
The woman stood up, blood on the front of her thick black skirt, making it look all shiny and wet. She was portly, a big woman, wearing a tall hat, the veil pulled upward. Most of her skin was covered by black cloth, her garb resembling widow’s weeds. Bill Clarmont’s funeral was probably not the first time the outfit had been worn in recent weeks or months, nor would it be the last.
“They’ve gone and killed Henry Peterson,” the woman said. “Henry never hurt a fly. Not once. And he didn’t have the cold heart of a banker, either. He was a fine man. Deserved better, he did.”
“Did you see who did this?”
The woman shook her head no. “I was coming back from the doings, a funeral, you know.”
“Bill Clarmont.”
“Yes, a deputy in this town.” She eyed Josiah from head to toe. “That why you’re here, Ranger? To put a stop to this senseless violence?”
“I wish I could answer yes to that question.” He refrained from offering his name, unsure if it was common knowledge that he had been the one to kill Bill Clarmont. There was no need to alarm the woman any further on a day like today. “So, you don’t know who did this?”
“No, not for certain. But this town has been overrun with thugs of late. I sure hope someone has the fortitude to go after these cold-blooded killers and give them the same treatment that Hardin boy got.”
Josiah sighed heavily. He stopped at the woman’s side and looked down at Henry Peterson. He’d been shot three times in the chest.
“Looks like the mortician is a busy man in this town,” Josiah said.
“Lately,” the woman said. “Him and the sheriff.”
“The sheriff’s dead, ma’am. There won’t be any justice served to those killers right away. At least by him.”
“Roy is dead?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then there is a Lord in Heaven. Our prayers have been answered,” the woman said.
Josiah looked at the woman curiously and was about to ask her what she meant when he heard another ruckus outside: the arrival of several horses and riders coming to stop in front of the bank. He motioned for the woman to be quiet, then pulled the Colt from the holster and made his way to the door.
CHAPTER 15
The last thing Josiah Wolfe was expecting to see outside of the bank was a company of Texas Rangers. There were fifteen of them, two abreast, standing in wait in the middle of the street.
Captain Pete Feders headed up the troop, and Josiah was greatly relieved to see Scrap Elliot sitting on Missy, his trusted roan mare, three horses back in the mix of the boys.
Josiah stepped out of the bank, failing to tell the woman that all was well. “It sure is good to see you, Pete, um, Captain Feders.” He walked out into the street and stopped a few feet from the captain’s horse.
“Wolfe, you’re alive,” Feders said. His facial expression didn’t change. He was stoic, his eyes hard, looking at Josiah head-on, t
hen beyond, searching past him.
“Last time I checked.”
“Elliot reported that you were captured, carried off by two Comanche. Our hopes were not great in finding you among the living. But we set out for your rescue. It seems that our journey was unnecessary.”
Pete Feders was a lanky man, a true son of Texas, born and bred in the state just like Josiah. They had ridden briefly together as Rangers, with Captain Hiram Fikes, before the Frontier Battalion had been formed and then again after. Both had been there when Fikes was killed, which was what ultimately led to Feders taking charge of the new company of Rangers, in the capacity of captain. Leadership didn’t seem to fit Feders well at all—at least not comfortably, in a way that motivates other men to risk their lives for you. Riding second seemed to suit him more, taking orders rather giving them. Feders hadn’t mastered that skill yet, even though he’d been in the lead spot for nearly six months now.
Feders was nearly as tall as Josiah, the two about the same age, and Feders was a veteran of the War Between the States himself, though not as a member of the Texas Brigade like Josiah had been. Feders had fought with an outfit from Alabama, which never made sense to Josiah.
Feders hailed from one of the counties in West Texas, where he fought the Comanche and the Kiowa plenty of times as a young man, braving the frontier before signing up in the army.
A thin but well-pronounced scar ran from the corner of Pete’s right eye to his ear. Josiah tried not to stare at the scar, but he couldn’t help himself. He had no clue of the scar’s origin, whether it was produced at the hand of an Indian or a Northern Aggressor, or neither. Pete Feders was a private man—even more so since taking the reins as captain of the company of Rangers. He ate by himself and spent a good deal of time away from the shenanigans of the men when they weren’t out on a mission: horse races, shooting matches, card games, and such.
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