The Badger's Revenge

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “I don’t imagine you’ll have to take orders from anybody, except for maybe me,” Josiah finally said. “You’re a fine shot, Elliot, and one of the best horsemen I’ve ever met. I just wish you had as much talent with your mouth as you do your trigger finger.”

  “Well, thanks,” Scrap said. “I think.”

  The door to the jail opened, and Juan Carlos walked outside, a smile on his face. He stopped, hitched up his pants like he was prone to do since he was so skinny, and was about to say something to Josiah when the first shot rang out.

  Juan Carlos didn’t have time to react.

  The bullet, which came from behind Josiah and Scrap, caught the Mexican solidly in the shoulder, knocking him back against the hard wall of the jail.

  The second shot dropped Juan Carlos to his knees.

  He fell flat on his face before Josiah or Scrap could reach for their guns and return fire.

  CHAPTER 37

  Scrap spun around and fired blindly into the darkness, quickly emptying his six-shooter.

  Josiah jumped off Clipper and began shooting, too, hesitating only a second after seeing a shadow move along the roof of the two-storey courthouse across the street.

  With his free hand, Josiah grabbed his Winchester out of the scabbard, readying himself to take aim when he ran out of bullets. He knew there was little chance of hitting anything, but like Scrap, he emptied his gun. He holstered it, and aimed the rifle upward, drawing a breath, gathering his thoughts, before pulling the trigger.

  The light from the jail became even brighter as the door swung open and footsteps rushed out behind Josiah.

  He looked over his shoulder, saw two men take up positions behind the limestone columns that held up the jail’s roof. They had rifles and joined in the shoot-out without any questions or direction. Josiah assumed it was the sheriff of Kinney County and a deputy, roused by the gunfire and come to help.

  Scrap continued shooting, so Josiah dropped back, his concern less about his own safety than that of Juan Carlos.

  The Mexican hadn’t moved a muscle that Josiah could tell—it was hard to say whether he was dead or alive.

  Josiah crouched down next to Juan Carlos, just as a bullet pinged off the dirt about a foot from the Mexican’s head. He was going to see if he could find a pulse, see if Juan Carlos was still alive, but now all he wanted to do was get his friend out of harm’s way, regardless.

  “There’s more than one,” Scrap yelled out as he slid off Missy, then smacked her on the rump, sending her out of the line of fire.

  The blue roan mare tore off down the street like there was a trophy and a huge payout involved in the run. Gunshots didn’t spook that horse one bit.

  Josiah whistled and Clipper quickly followed after Scrap’s horse.

  Scrap found a spot between the jail and a barn that probably held the sheriff’s horses, and started firing upward to the roofline of the courthouse where Josiah had seen the shadows move.

  Josiah grabbed Juan Carlos by the wrists and started to drag him back into the darkness created by the overhang of the jail’s roof.

  A bullet hit the dirt a couple of inches to the left of Josiah’s boot. That motivated him to struggle even harder to move Juan Carlos as quickly as he could.

  He left any concern of hurting Juan Carlos behind. He pushed his legs as deep and as fast as he could, yanking the man’s limp body behind him into the darkness as fast as he could. He came to a stop next to the jail, on the opposite side of the building from Scrap, securely in the shadows, hidden from the shooters on the roof—or at least he hoped so.

  There were still shots being exchanged, but it was more a volley now than a shoot-out and a shower of bullets. It seemed like there was only one gun on top of the courthouse taking shots at them. Josiah didn’t know if one of the shooters had been taken out, or if they had escaped and were planning an attack from another hidden spot.

  It didn’t take long for Josiah’s eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  There were no windows on this side of the jail, and whatever lay beyond was of little concern. All that mattered was that the building helped hide him and Juan Carlos.

  Josiah quickly felt Juan Carlos’s neck, searching for a pulse. He found a faint but steady rhythm that gave him immediate hope that his friend had a chance of surviving. He was more than glad the Mexican was still alive.

  Juan Carlos groaned, then his eyes flickered open.

  “Take it easy there, friend,” Josiah said.

  “I underestimated O’Reilly,” Juan Carlos whispered. His voice was weak and cracking with pain.

  “Don’t worry about it. Save your strength. Where’d they hit you?”

  “In the shoulder,” Juan Carlos coughed weakly, clutching his stomach at the same time, “and in the belly.”

  Josiah exhaled, knowing full well the gut shot might yet prove to be fatal. “Hang on.”

  “If I don’t make it,” Juan Carlos said, “find a scout in the fort by the name of Dixie Jim. He will know what to do without me. He will take you into the Strip where you need to go to find Cortina.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Juan Carlos licked his dry lips, his eyes wide open, the pain he was feeling certain. He struggled to say something but couldn’t find—or say—the words.

  Josiah looked over his shoulder for a source of water. He thought he could see the outline of a well and water pump just behind the jail. He started to get up and go find out, but Juan Carlos reached up and pulled him back.

  “You have to know that Pearl’s fate and heart are in your hands,” Juan Carlos said so softly now that Josiah had to lean down next to his mouth to hear him speak.

  Josiah pulled back. “What do you mean?”

  “She is mucho valuable. The man who marries her stands to become wealthy beyond belief. You must know that.”

  Josiah had assumed as much, knew that Pearl’s station in life was way beyond his own—and he thought then, as he did now, that giving into his strongest desire was a mistake for him . . . and her, but he couldn’t help himself. There was no time for regret now.

  “You are in the way,” Juan Carlos whispered. “And I can’t help you.”

  “In the way of what?” Although Josiah knew the answer to that question—at least he thought he did. He was in Pete Feders’s way. Especially now, considering what had happened before he left Austin.

  It made no sense to Josiah why Juan Carlos was bringing up the subject, other than his own fondness and love for his niece. There was no question Pearl was the apple of Juan Carlos’s eye, the only reason, now that his half brother was dead, that he tolerated the Widow Fikes. As far as Josiah knew, Pearl was the only living relative that Juan Carlos had.

  “If you love her, you have to save her . . . Save her from him . . .” Juan Carlos whispered. His eyes fluttered, he licked his lips deeply again, and then lost consciousness before he could finish the sentence.

  Josiah’s heart sank at the sight and at the thought of losing Juan Carlos. He wanted to scream out: Save her from what? From who? But he knew better than to draw the bullets to him. If there was any hope of keeping his friend alive, of saving him, then he had to get him help, fast, and not get him shot again.

  The gunfire had awakened Brackett. A small crowd had gathered about a block south of the jail. A torch burned brightly, showing the faces of a curious crowd, probably drawn out of the nearest saloon.

  The shooting had stopped, though it remained to be seen if this was a good thing or not. There hadn’t been a shot fired in the last five minutes.

  Josiah eased away from Juan Carlos, over to the column where one of the men from the sheriff’s office had perched.

  “I need to get help for Juan Carlos,” Josiah said.

  Sweat was running down the man’s face. It was hard to make out many of his features in the dark, but there was a glint of light reflecting off the star on his chest.

  “Doc’s got a place a half block over. Once it’s safe, I’ll
send word to get him down here. How bad is Juan Carlos?”

  “Gut-shot and took another to the shoulder,” Josiah answered.

  “Damn.”

  “I don’t know how much longer he’s going to last.”

  “Your partner over there is a keen shot,” the man said.

  “Elliot’s pretty good. You think he got the shooter?”

  “Hard to say.” The man looked away from Josiah, up to the top of the courthouse. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and it was easy to see wisps of thin, white hair, balding on top. “I’m Bill Gamit, Kinney County sheriff, by the way. I’ve known Juan Carlos for as long as I can remember. He’s a good man to have on your side.”

  “Good to meet you, Sheriff.”

  “Call me Bill.”

  Josiah nodded. The man had a gentle but firm voice and a twinkle in his eye. He immediately put Josiah at ease.

  “Luke, take yourself up to the roof up there. It’s been quiet for a little too long. Take Ranger Wolfe’s partner with you,” Bill Gamit said to the other man, behind the opposite column.

  The man, obviously a deputy since he wore a silver star on his chest, too, nodded, then disappeared into the shadows, off in Scrap’s direction.

  Josiah wanted to protest that Scrap wasn’t his partner, just a fellow Ranger, but he let it go. For all intents and purposes, Scrap was his partner on this mission, whether he liked it or not.

  “You got any idea who might be shooting at Juan Carlos?” Gamit asked.

  “My guess is O’Reilly’s in on it. I questioned whether Juan Carlos was making a mistake coming into town so boldly,” Josiah said. “But if you’ve known him for a long time, then you know how he is.”

  Gamit nodded. “O’Reilly? That’s odd. I heard scuttlebutt about some Irish outlaw hookin’ up with Cortina, but if that’s the case, you’re in the wrong place, mister.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, if Cortina was close by, I would know it. Last I heard he was about two hundred miles from here, holed up in a little spot outside of Nuevo Laredo.”

  “Then why did Juan Carlos bring us here?” Josiah said, suddenly exasperated.

  “Beats me,” Sheriff Gamit said. “You’ll have to ask him. If you can.”

  CHAPTER 38

  “We didn’t see anything,” Scrap said as he came inside the sheriff’s office. “Nothin’ up there but roof and some empty cartridges.”

  Juan Carlos was lying on a cot in a cell, unconscious. Sheriff Gamit and the doctor were inside looking after him. Josiah had been standing at the door of the jail, anxiously awaiting Scrap’s return.

  “How’s the Mexican doin’?” Scrap asked.

  “Not good,” Josiah said.

  “What’re we gonna do?”

  Josiah shrugged. He didn’t have a clue at the moment. “Depends on what happens to Juan Carlos I ’spect.”

  The deputy who had joined Scrap eased by him, then made his way into the cell where Juan Carlos was, to speak to the sheriff. The deputy was a young man, probably no more than twenty years old, skinny as a nail and tall as a pine tree. His gun hung low on his hip, and it looked like the weight of it could tip him over. He murmured something unintelligible in Gamit’s ear, then stood back from the cot respectfully, standing with his arms behind his back.

  “That there is Luke. Sheriff Gamit is his granddaddy,” Scrap said.

  Josiah nodded. That made sense.

  The sheriff walked out of the cell, a grim look on his face. “You fellas can stay here tonight if you’d like. Doc says it’s touch and go for ole Juan Carlos. Might make it through the night, might not. He’s got to get those bullets out of him if he can. Not sure he can survive that. He ain’t goin’ to Laredo anytime soon, though, so you best be thinkin’ of a plan for yourself.”

  “Damn,” Josiah said. “Thanks, Sheriff, I think staying here is a good idea. We don’t know our way around town, and hard telling who’s got a lookout for us. Seems to me we might end up worse off than our friend here if we leave now.”

  “That’s what I was thinkin’,” the sheriff said. “I’ll send Luke out to get you some grub. There’s an empty cell in the back with a double bunk and a pump just outside the back door. Can’t offer you a place to take a bath, but you can clean up a little bit and rest assured you’re safe for the night.”

  Josiah took his hat off. “We sure do appreciate that, Sheriff Gamit.”

  “Bill.”

  “All right, Bill,” Josiah said, allowing himself to smile for the first time since they’d arrived in Brackett.

  The lights were out, and the doctor had long since gone, his task of taking the bullets out of Juan Carlos successfully completed. There was nothing to do but wait and see how things turned out for the Mexican. The doctor gave him a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the night. Not the best odds in the world, but not the worst either.

  Josiah was lying on the top bunk, on his back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, listening to every little sound inside the jail and beyond. His trigger finger lay inches away from the Colt Frontier.

  It didn’t matter that they were in the jail, he didn’t feel a bit safe. Somebody knew they were in town. Somebody wanted Juan Carlos dead. And that somebody certainly knew they were still inside the jail. They’d gotten away without leaving a trace of who they were, or who had sent them.

  “You awake up there, Wolfe?” Scrap asked, his voice low.

  “Yeah, I’m awake. Can’t sleep a wink, I don’t think.”

  “Me either. What do you think the Mexican was up to bringing us here?”

  “Don’t know, really. The sheriff said Juan Carlos stopped in just as a courtesy, letting him know we were in town. Nothing more than that.”

  “That don’t make a lot of sense to me,” Scrap said.

  “Me, either, but you’ve been around Juan Carlos enough. He rarely tells you anything, and he never tells you everything.”

  “Surprises me you trust him.”

  “He saved my life once.”

  “Guess you’re even, and I’m one up on him.”

  “If he lives.”

  Both men grew quiet then, the thought of losing Juan Carlos troubling—at least to Josiah.

  “What are we gonna do now?” Scrap finally asked. It didn’t take a loud voice to carry inside the limestone cell, and it was cool, too. Just about right for a thin blanket.

  “Juan Carlos told me to look up a man named Dixie Jim. He’s a scout at the fort. It’s the only reason I can think of why we’re here. Maybe this Dixie Jim fella knows the spots around Laredo better than Juan Carlos and can take us in so we can find O’Reilly and do what needs doing.”

  “I ain’t real comfortable bein’ around half-breeds.”

  “You can always stay here,” Josiah said, his voice firm as was befitting the sergeant he was. Scrap didn’t answer, so Josiah assumed the message had come across loud and clear. “Good, that’s the last I expect to hear about that subject.”

  “I ain’t gonna trust him.”

  “Nobody said you had to.”

  The rising sun quickly warmed the jail cell. Harsh light beamed through the window across from the bunks and bounced off the nearly white walls, rousing Josiah awake long before he was ready.

  He had been lost in a dream, one with dead people who could speak and living people who couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried to stay asleep so he could remember what the dead people said, he couldn’t hold on to their words. His mother was there. A soldier that had died next to him in Georgia during the war, a bullet hole squarely in the center of his forehead, the blood caked and old, dirt on his hands, like he had crawled through the earth, out of his grave, just to speak to Josiah in his dreams. Josiah couldn’t even remember the man’s name.

  Pearl was there, too. And Juan Carlos was standing on a hill alone, with storm clouds gathering behind him.

  It was futile trying to stay asleep, so Josiah sat up in the bunk, wiping the night away, taking a deep breath, trying as
hard as he could to see his mother again in his mind’s eye. There was no use in that, either. He couldn’t hang on to the image of his mother, her eyes open, life in them, words coming out of her mouth. All he could remember about her now was seeing her lying in the coffin he’d built with his own hands.

  He didn’t try to apply any meaning to dreams, and for a moment, now that he was awake, he had to get his bearings and remember where he was and why.

  First thing he did after putting his feet on the ground and seeing Scrap still sleeping away in the other bunk, was go out and check on Juan Carlos.

  It didn’t look like Juan Carlos had moved from the last time Josiah had seen him. The Mexican was asleep, or so Josiah assumed, a blanket up to his neck.

  Luke was sitting behind a desk in the office section of the jail, and the smell of coffee permeated the room. A pot sat on top of a Franklin stove in the corner.

  “There’s coffee there for you, Ranger Wolfe,” Luke said.

  Josiah was standing at the cell door, looking in at his friend. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Sheriff’ll be in in a little while.”

  “I imagine we’ll be gone by then.”

  “Headin’ out to the fort?”

  Josiah nodded yes. “I think we are.”

  “Your friend ain’t goin’ anywheres soon,” Roy said. “Doc worked on him hard, told me to keep his lips wet with whiskey all night. Ain’t heard a peep out of the fella, though. He’s a tough one.”

  “That he is. A good friend, too.”

  “He and my grandpa go back a long ways. Used to come through town ever once in a while with another Ranger, a short little wiry man who was always up for a game of faro down at the saloon.”

  “That’d be Captain Fikes,” Josiah said. “He was killed last spring.”

  “Heard about that. Glad they hanged the man that did it.”

  “Me, too.”

  Josiah poured himself a cup of coffee and offered the pot to Luke.

  “No, thanks, I don’t touch that stuff. Never acquired the taste for it or tobacco.”