The Badger's Revenge

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard. Red Overmeyer was a Ranger through and through,” Scrap said.

  “That’s what I thought, but Feders made a solid case for it before we left Austin. Said he thought Overmeyer had a deal with the Comanche so they knew we were coming that way. He thought Overmeyer was a spy for Indians or O’Reilly.”

  “If Feders was here right now, I’d punch him in the nose for sayin’ such a thing. That’s not the kind of thing you can say about a man who ain’t around to defend his own self.”

  “He thought Overmeyer was going to split the bounty on my head with the Comanche, but they decided to keep the money for themselves. Which was why they killed him and not you.”

  “I guess that makes sense, if Red was that type of fella. Didn’t even gamble or bet a horse when me and the boys ran ’em up at the camp. Funny thing is, Wolfe, Feders and the boys knew where to find me. Do you think that’s just a lucky find, or is there somethin’ more to it?”

  “I’m starting to think it was more than luck, too. I wondered how Feders knew to find me in Comanche. Rode in just at the right time. And now it sure seems odd that Feders was close by when Juan Carlos was shot, then disappeared south. I didn’t even know he was supposed to be involved in this plan of McNelly’s. Juan Carlos was tight-lipped about it all. It’s almost like he knew everything that was going to happen before it did, and that doesn’t make a lot of sense.” Josiah said.

  Scrap started to say something, then did not allow a word to escape from his lips—which was unusual for him.

  Josiah nodded. “Unless Pete Feders was in on all of this for some reason.”

  “That’d be a surprise.”

  “It would be a crime worse than any I could imagine, working with that scoundrel, O’Reilly. For what?”

  Scrap took a drink of his coffee, looking over the rim of the cup. “You and Feders have always been doin’ a hat dance around each other, and the captain’s daughter is right in the middle of it all.”

  Josiah stood straight up, his body tense and tight at the mention of Pearl. “You leave Pearl out of this.”

  “I’m just sayin’ maybe Pete Feders was trying to shift the blame on Red Overmeyer for a reason.”

  “And what reason would that be?”

  “To take the attention off himself,” Scrap said. “Maybe he’s the spy for O’Reilly—or Cortina. Maybe he wants you to be taken in a bad light. Or dead and out of the way.”

  Josiah took a deep breath and relaxed. He was surprised that Scrap had said aloud what he had been thinking, what Juan Carlos had warned him of.

  He knew that Feders had a reason to get Josiah out of Austin, out of Pearl’s life. Even more so now that he and Pearl had spent the night in the barn together. Pearl would never agree to marry Pete Feders. Feders didn’t know about Josiah’s tryst with Pearl as far as Josiah knew, but maybe he suspected it would happen. Pearl had always been less than secretive about her feelings for Josiah—she showed her desire in plain sight of everyone.

  Before Josiah could say anything to Scrap, Dixie Jim hobbled into the cave, sweat glistening from his deep brown brow, his eyes wide open and white with the exception of a fully engaged blue pupil. “Set me a nip of whiskey there, Wolfe. I found a fresh trail.”

  “You found the company of Rangers?” Josiah asked.

  Dixie Jim nodded yes. “They broke off about three miles from here and headed south.”

  “Broke off from what?” Scrap asked.

  “Two horses, heading west.”

  Josiah sighed deeply, walked over to his saddlebag that he’d taken into the cave, dug out Dixie Jim’s bottle of whiskey, and handed it to the scout. “Just one nip, and then we head west.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Dixie Jim proved to be a wise scout, though nearly any man could have found the horse tracks leading due west, since there didn’t look to have been any effort made by the riders to hide them. The question remained who the tracks belonged to, but according to Dixie Jim, who was on his knees studying a new set of tracks in the soft, loamy dirt, they were gaining ground on the riders since they didn’t seem to be in a hurry of any kind, not riding full out.

  “Within an hour, we’ll see their tails. Then we will know for sure,” Dixie Jim said.

  “Know what?” Josiah asked.

  “Whether this is your Badger or not.”

  Scrap was sitting on Missy next to Josiah and Clipper. It was late afternoon, and the sun still burned in a wide, cloudless sky. It was as blue as Pearl’s eyes, and Josiah continued to feel like they were all being watched, but he had nothing but gut instinct to prove his feeling. The land all around was desolate and quiet. They had not seen a ranch house, a longhorn, or any animal or human for that matter since Dixie Jim had found the tracks and they’d headed due west. Could have been Apache or Kickapoo scouting them out, or one of O’Reilly’s men, keeping an eye on them. Either way, Josiah would have bet his life that somebody was staring straight into the back of his neck.

  Scrap cleared his throat and scowled at Dixie Jim. “If those tracks do belong to O’Reilly, then why ain’t he tryin’ to hide himself?”

  Dixie Jim stood up. “Seems to me he don’t think he has anything to be worried about since Juan Carlos was shot in Brackett. If he knows you fellas, then he knows you ain’t no trackers.”

  “Makes sense,” Josiah said.

  Scrap continued to scowl. “I can track.”

  “Sure you can, boy,” Dixie Jim said.

  Josiah ignored both men. A couple of vultures circled the sky just to the south of them, silently riding the air, not flapping a wing. “You might be right,” he said to Dixie Jim, staring at the vultures.

  “Am right.” Dixie Jim walked to his horse, slid his crutch into the scabbard, then mounted the paint with a hop and a pull, all in one fluid motion. “What you gonna do when you find them two men? You got a plan?” he asked Josiah.

  Josiah stared at Dixie Jim, then glanced over to Scrap. “Elliot here is probably one of the best long shots I know. He can hold the high sight, stay back. We can get closer, circle around them, confront them if there’s an opportunity, give O’Reilly a chance to come in easy.”

  “We?” Dixie Jim laughed.

  Josiah nodded.

  “Not gonna be a we. I find them. That’s all I agreed to do,” Dixie Jim said. “Just gonna be you and the boy when it comes to that duty. Juan Carlos is a friend, and I owed him a favor, but no sirree, I sure don’t owe him my life. If he was here, I’d be gone now. But as it is, once we sight those two and make sure they’s the men you be lookin’ for, then I’m back off to Fort Clark.”

  “I have your whiskey,” Josiah said.

  “I have my own.”

  Scrap pushed Missy past Josiah. “Told you there wasn’t no trustin’ a half-breed, Wolfe. Looks like it’s just me and you. We can head back if you want, try and get the rest of the boys to help us take these two in.”

  “We’re not going back,” Josiah said, urging Clipper on, catching sight of the tracks Dixie Jim was looking at, and taking the lead.

  Night was about to fall before Josiah caught the first sight of the two riders. The sun had already dropped below the horizon, but gray daylight still reached up from beyond the curve of the earth. Pinks and reds pulsated on the underside of a few wispy clouds in the sky, drops of fading blood on a growing black curtain. Nary a star dared show itself yet as the day fought its last battle with the overpowering pull of darkness and the coming of night.

  It was almost like the colors of the clouds had reached down and touched the head of one of the riders—it glowed red, without a hat. There was no question the man was Liam O’Reilly. But the other rider’s identity was not so easy to discern from the distance they were at, and neither Josiah nor Scrap had possession of a sighting scope. For a moment, Josiah thought he recognized the second rider’s horse, a tall black stallion, but he was too far away to see any of the markings, so he turned to ask Dixie Jim, who had been
riding behind the two men, to see if he had a scope, and discovered that the Negro-Seminole had left their company without saying a word.

  “I’ll be . . .” Josiah said.

  “What?” Scrap asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “Dixie Jim’s gone.”

  “Well, it ain’t no big surprise to me.”

  “He could’ve said something,” Josiah said.

  “He did. Said as soon as we caught sight of O’Reilly he was out of here. What more you need, Wolfe, a big good-bye?”

  Josiah shook his head no. “Just thought he’d be more friendly after spending a few days with us.”

  “Speakin’ for myself, I’m glad to be rid of him. He smelt like he was carryin’ a dead fish in his pockets. You notice that?”

  Josiah wasn’t paying attention to Scrap. The light on the horizon was nearly gone, and the bottoms of the clouds were losing their color so they were almost black. “Damn it,” he said. “I’ve lost sight of them.”

  They eased their horses next to a large reach of limestone about a hundred feet tall. Might have been taller, but now that night had fallen completely, it was hard to tell exactly how high the rocks and mountains around them really were.

  Josiah felt a little out of his element, not knowing the ways of the land this far southwest. He was a long way from the piney woods of Tyler, out among the prickly pear, mesquite, and a host of unknown creatures. Especially at night.

  Luckily, the wispy clouds of the evening had pushed on, and the sky was full of pinprick stars, tiny silver orbs twinkling overhead. Half of the moon was hidden. It would be another week or two before it would show itself completely. Still, even with half of its brightness, there was light to navigate by and plenty of moon shadows to be leery of.

  Both men dismounted as quietly as possible. They couldn’t see a fire, but Josiah could smell it, and he was sure Scrap could, too. O’Reilly and the other rider were close. Hidden, but close.

  There was nothing to hear, no crackle of a fire or voices on the wind. Even far-off coyotes, yipping only minutes before, had gone silent.

  “We need to stick together,” Josiah whispered to Scrap. He put his index finger to his lips.

  Scrap nodded and motioned for Josiah to take the lead. Both men had their six-shooter in one hand and their rifle in the other. As Scrap passed by Missy, he rubbed her rump quickly and gave her an open-handed tap. There were few times Josiah had witnessed Scrap showing the horse affection, but the boy cared deeply about his horse and was always nervous about leaving her behind—especially since his capture by Big Shirt and Little Shirt.

  Josiah smiled briefly at this demonstration, then carefully made his way forward, edging along a tall stone face that still held heat from the day.

  This was not how he had hoped to come upon O’Reilly, but there was no choice now but to follow the scent of the fire and surprise the two men. Good thing was, Josiah had seen them both from far enough away to know they were riding alone—most likely, considering the direction, heading to Mexico to make contact with Cortina. That, of course, was all supposition on Josiah’s part, but he couldn’t figure out anything else, or know the whys and hows of what was going on. All he knew was that he intended to put a stop to O’Reilly once and for all. So he would be safe. So Lyle would be safe. So Pearl would be safe.

  He had tried to think little of Pearl since he’d left Austin, but every time he closed his eyes, she was fully in his mind’s eye, begging him to come back home.

  It was a nice feeling to have, a welcome development over the pull of loneliness and grief that he had held tight for so long after Lily and his three little girls had died. It was far too soon to make too much out of his intimate moment with Pearl . . . but Josiah wanted nothing more than to complete his assignment and personal mission so he could return home to those he cared about.

  The rock curved, and Josiah edged along slowly, a tiny glimmer of firelight reflecting off the side of the mountain. He stopped and took a deep breath, then looked over his shoulder and nodded to Scrap, indicating that they were on the right trail.

  O’Reilly’s camp was just ahead, he was certain of it.

  Rounds chambered, guns at the ready, Josiah’s heart remained steady. He held no fear, did not sweat . . . until he heard the pull of a hammer and a familiar Irish voice.

  “Move one more step, Wolfe, and I’ll blow your head clean off.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Everything stopped. There was no wind, no animal sounds, nothing but silence and a beating heart. O’Reilly’s voice came from directly in front of Josiah, but he couldn’t see a thing, not a shadow, not an outline of a man, nothing but the black of night.

  “You, too, there, Elliot. Both of you drop your guns to the ground,” O’Reilly yelled out. He was close, a couple of feet away, between a tall boulder and the campfire, hidden so well it was almost like he was invisible.

  Josiah knew there were two men, but didn’t know who the other man was or where he was. Could be with O’Reilly or behind them. It didn’t matter. All Josiah knew was he wasn’t about to be captured again, was not going to leave his fate in luck’s hand, or the Irishman’s either, for that matter.

  “I’m not foolin’ around with either of you,” O’Reilly said.

  “You might as well shoot me now, O’Reilly. If I’m a dead man, I’d just as soon get it over with,” Josiah answered. He felt around with his boot and touched a small rock. He kicked it toward O’Reilly’s voice, hoping to create a distraction, bouncing it off a boulder, then dropping his body to the ground as quickly and in as swift a motion as he could. He hoped Scrap had the sense to do the same thing, or something else to save himself.

  O’Reilly fired into the darkness, the flash exposing his position, missing Josiah by several feet.

  The shot had come from a steep buttress of rock. O’Reilly must have been hiding about ten feet up, on a slight ridge, just off the path Josiah and Scrap were sneaking along, toward the campfire. The shot ricocheted off a tight collection of rocks, sending sparks sizzling in every direction.

  Josiah rolled on the ground, came to a stop in a prone position against a boulder, and fired back in O’Reilly’s direction.

  The first shot had been directed at Josiah, giving Scrap time to dive into the darkness. Josiah heard him move, saw his silhouette disappearing, was tempted to ask if he was all right, but didn’t have time—and didn’t want to give away his position.

  “You’re a dead man, Wolfe,” O’Reilly shouted.

  Josiah answered back with a quick blast of three shots. One hit the buttress on the edge, sparking slightly. The other two shots disappeared into the darkness.

  “I’m not dead yet,” Josiah said.

  A flurry of shots erupted from behind Josiah, the percussion loud and deafening.

  “Neither am I,” Scrap yelled out.

  For a moment, no one said anything. A cloud of gun smoke wafted past Josiah, and he sighed silently, relieved and glad that Scrap was all right.

  Josiah knew there was another man out there somewhere, knew he was still exposed, but hoped like hell Scrap had his back covered. There didn’t seem to be a way to ease closer to O’Reilly without putting himself more out in the open.

  “You should have stayed in Austin, Wolfe,” O’Reilly said, the lilt in his voice measured with anger.

  Josiah fired a round. Hit the rock. “I’d rather be where I am right now.”

  “If you were a better shot, I would have never made it out of Comanche alive.”

  “I got what mattered. I’m sure that bank’s got a bounty out on your head and a rope waiting for you for killing the sheriff.”

  “Wasn’t much of a sheriff, was he?”

  “Should have sent you packing with that kin of Hardin’s.”

  “More to be made runnin’ a town than robbin’ a bank, Wolfe. That’s always the last bit of business before movin’ on. You ought to know that.”

  “You’re stopped now. And you haven’t reach
ed Cortina yet. One of us isn’t getting out of here alive. That’s all I care about.”

  O’Reilly shot back, the repercussion echoing off into the night, the bullet about a foot off from the imaginary target on the center of Josiah’s forehead. “You don’t know what I’ve reached, Wolfe.”

  Scrap jumped up, pumped a full load of six shots in O’Reilly’s direction. “You’ve reached the end of the road. That’s what you’ve reached!”

  O’Reilly fired back, and the shadow that was Scrap jumped back into the darkness just in time.

  A second later, a pebble pinged Josiah in the leg. He looked over his shoulder. He could barely see Scrap, who was motioning his head in the opposite direction, then pointing his finger up. He was obviously willing to take a chance and wanted to circle around to the other side of the rock, find a way at O’Reilly that the outlaw wasn’t expecting. Josiah nodded his head yes.

  “That boy’s gonna be your death, Wolfe. You need to find a better riding partner.”

  “I’m tired of your threats, O’Reilly. The bounty on my head is up, for what good it did you.”

  “I gave you too much credit, Wolfe.”

  “Did you have a deal with Red Overmeyer? Was he a traitor?”

  “Overmeyer? That Indian-lovin’ scout?” O’Reilly laughed, then took another shot at Josiah. “I don’t know anything about a deal. You’ll have to ask those Comanche about that.”

  “One of them is dead, and the other is on display in the Austin Opera House, last I heard.”

  Josiah didn’t know whether to believe O’Reilly or not about Overmeyer. He just wanted to keep the man talking, distract him, to give Scrap a chance to find his way to a better shot.

  “If you’ve already made a deal with Cortina, what are you doing out here, heading west?” Josiah asked.

  “You ask a lot of fool questions, Wolfe. Charlie Langdon should have killed you when he had the chance.”