“Why do you say that?”
“His horse brought me here. I didn’t come here on my own.”
“I know.”
“How so?”
She shrugged with a wicked smile that meant no harm. “I know everything that comes and goes on this street. I know that you are a Ranger who nearly lost his life in San Antonio, and that you are a loyal friend. A quiet man who doesn’t question what’s asked of him, but would die for the right cause. There are few men who match that description.”
“Juan Carlos has been here.”
“Yes, of course.”
Josiah sighed. “Is he here now?”
“He is close.”
“Good. I will not worry about his well-being.”
“There is no need.”
He nodded, and stared at the woman. “You know more about me than I do you. I don’t even know your name.”
The woman laughed. “But you do.”
“How so?”
He waited for her to answer, but the woman said nothing. Instead, she stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out.
“My name is Suzanne del Toro,” she said, her back to him.
“Fat Susie,” Josiah whispered.
“Sí,” the woman said. “Much to my chagrin, el capitán called me Fat Susie—and only he could get away with it.”
She walked away from the window, climbed back into bed, and beckoned Josiah to join her. He didn’t hesitate.
Morning came quickly. Soft gray light filtered into the room as Josiah readied himself to leave. The street below was quiet, the rooms below them empty. There was no music, no hint of anything that had occurred the night before, except the regret that was slowly beginning to creep inside Josiah’s aching head.
Suzanne remained in bed, wrapped in a sheet, a sad look on her soft brown face. “I’ll never see you again, will I?”
He buckled his gun belt and adjusted it on his hip. “I have to go home to Tyler. I have a son to care for. After seeing to him, I need to join the rest of the Frontier Battalion at the Red River.”
“Just like Hank. Always off somewhere.”
“Would you really want a man under your feet all of the time?”
“I think you could get under my skin,” she whispered.
Josiah blushed. “I’m going to leave you the captain’s horse. His wife set out orders to have her shot.”
“Ella es una perra de mal corazón,” Suzanne spit, her lip instantly curling up in a hateful sneer.
Josiah shrugged. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you said.”
“She is an evil-hearted bitch.”
“She’s something, that’s a certainty.”
“I will gladly keep the horse. My namesake. El capitán would be happy that I have her. I had her taken to the livery last night so there is no need to worry about her well-being, either.”
Suzanne stood up out of the bed, letting the sheet fall off her naked body. She wrapped her arms around Josiah’s neck and pressed herself firmly against him. “Adios, Josiah Wolfe. You are welcome here anytime. Do not forget me.”
Regardless of the impending regret, he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her closer to him, nuzzling his face into her neck, tempting himself even further to kiss her fully on the lips. They had not kissed, had not crossed that forbidden line, which he would not do—unless he knew it was something she was comfortable with; so far she hadn’t shown any sign, either.
It surprised him that leaving her was so hard.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything, Suzanne del Toro. Don’t worry, I don’t think I will be able to forget you.”
He pulled away from her, walked to the door, opened it slowly, stopped, thought about going back and kissing her anyway, but knew he couldn’t, then exited with haste.
He hurried down the dark hall and the remaining stairs, the sconces long since extinguished.
Fat Susie—the horse—was nowhere in sight when he stepped outside the saloon. The street was empty, save for another horse, a tired-looking swayback chestnut mare tied to a post several buildings down from the saloon. The sun had barely broken over the horizon, coloring a gathering of tall thunderclouds in the west a deep angry red.
Josiah tried to ignore the sky, and what it might imply about the fortune of the coming day; he was worried less about the warning than about the man who had just stepped out of the alleyway next to the saloon, a six-shooter in his hand, the barrel trained squarely at Josiah’s head.
“Don’t even go thinkin’ about goin’ for your gun,” the man whispered.
Josiah froze, his eyes glued to the man’s gun, a Colt Peacemaker just like his. The man was as tall as him, but probably weighed seventy-five pounds more. It looked like all muscle. His black skin gleamed with perspiration in the morning sunlight, and he looked like he’d been riding for a while. His outfit was dusty from Stetson to boot toe, and his shirt was torn across the shoulder—the Negro looked more than a little frayed, like it’d been a while since he’d had some rest, a good bath, and a decent meal.
Josiah had failed to watch his step, his awareness and mind still lost in Suzanne’s bed. If he got out of this mess, there’d be time to chastise himself later. It did occur to him though, pretty quickly, that if the man was going to shoot him, he’d be dead already.
“I wouldn’t think of such a thing,” Josiah said.
He had very little time to consider his alternatives, but he had to consider that the man might be the Negro who was riding with Patterson, his posse, and the Irish tracker, O’Reilly. He also had to consider that it was possible the Negro was the same man Scrap said he saw riding off after the ambush that took McClure’s life. He had to question why the man had not shot him when he had the chance, instead of just holding him there, a gun to his head on an empty street.
“That’d be a good thing, there, Ranger man. Just don’t you go movin’ about, now. Not an inch, not an eyelash, hear?”
“Are we waiting on something?”
“Be best if you just go an’ shut up now, hear? I’ll shoot you square between da eyes, I surely will. Makes no matter to me. No sirree, none a’tall. I’ll kill you without a worry about nothin’. Now you just wait, and don’t move until I says so.”
“You got a name?”
The Negro shook the gun, his finger twitching on the trigger, then he jammed the barrel hard against Josiah’s temple. “I does, but ain’t none of your damn business. Is you stupid?”
“Most people call me Josiah.”
“I knows that. You tryin’ to be funny?”
“No, that’s normally not my nature.”
Well, Josiah thought, but didn’t say, since he knows my name, that pretty much rules out a simple robbery—which, since he had no money, could have ended quickly, and probably not as badly as this looked like it was going to end.
He took a deep breath, certain now that he better do what he was told, since he assumed he was right, that he was standing face-to-face with one of the men who had been riding with Patterson.
The question remained whether the Negro was a loyalist to Patterson or, ultimately, loyal to Charlie Langdon.
If the man shot Josiah, it wouldn’t matter, but in his own mind Josiah thought the two men, Patterson and Langdon, were joined in a greater scheme: one that had left Captain Hiram “Hank” Fikes dead as a doornail. Knowing the truth, why Fikes was killed in the first place, wouldn’t go too far in getting him out of the pickle he was in at the moment, but damn, he sure wanted to know what the hell was going on.
“Don’t move. Just don’t go movin’ an inch, you hear?”
Josiah nodded, and felt the cool end of the barrel track along his skin on the side of his face. His only advantage, he hoped, was that the Negro was not much of a student of the Colt Peacemaker.
Josiah had learned early on that keeping an empty chamber in the Peacemaker was a smart practice. With six rounds in the chamber, a sharp blow could dislodge the safety mechanism
, permanently damaging it and allowing the gun to fire on its own if it was dropped—or knocked to the ground. If the gun was damaged, unusable, then Josiah would have the clear advantage, if he could get the Negro in the sights of his own Peacemaker.
Surely at this point, any movement at all would cause the Negro to pull the trigger, so Josiah wasn’t about to try to knock the gun from the man’s hand, but it did give him something to watch for, hopeful for an opportunity that would free him of the man’s control.
Only a matter of minutes had passed since the Negro had appeared out of nowhere, but it sure seemed like an hour since the gun had been put to Josiah’s head.
The sound of hurried horse hooves digging into the dirt street raced toward them, and drew the Negro’s attention away from Josiah for a fraction of a second.
The momentary distraction was all Josiah needed. He didn’t know who was coming, but just as Josiah was about to raise his arm to knock the Peacemaker out of the Negro’s hand, something whirled past his right ear.
A knife pierced the Negro’s shoulder, its intense velocity tearing through cloth, skin, and muscle, burying itself to the hilt in the blink of an eye. The knife sounded like a loud tap on a cantaloupe as it entered the man’s body. Blood spurted outward before the black man could react, before he could even let out a scream.
Already in the mode to knock the gun from the man’s large hand, Josiah followed through, unconcerned where the knife had come from, or whether it had hit its intended target. It might have been meant for him, for all he knew.
The Peacemaker hit the ground with a thud, fired, and the bullet ricocheted out of sight.
The Negro screamed, reacting to the pain from the piercing knife. His eyes were white with surprise and fear, following the trail of his lost weapon as it bounded out of reach.
Josiah took further advantage of the situation and punched the black man square in the nose as hard as he could, sending him tumbling backward, head over heels.
It only took a second for Josiah to take his own Peacemaker in hand. He trained it on the big Negro before he came to rest, splayed against the wall on the opposite side of the alleyway. “You move, and it’ll be the last thing you do.” He hesitated, and added, “Hear?”
The Negro nodded, groaning, trying to pull the knife out of his shoulder with one hand, cupping his bleeding nose with the other.
“I got some questions for you,” Josiah said as he looked over his shoulder, hoping to see that it was Juan Carlos who had come to the rescue—again. But it wasn’t.
Suzanne del Toro stood at the door of the saloon, her eyes looking past Josiah. “Look out,” she yelled, digging in her skirt, either for another knife or a derringer. Neither of which would be much help at this point.
Josiah caught sight of the rider on the approaching horse.
It was the redheaded tracker, O’Reilly. The Irishman had two guns drawn, his frothing black horse bearing down on Josiah quickly. The horse swerved, and O’Reilly fired both pistols in unison. Josiah dove to the ground, rolling up against the wall of the saloon and firing his gun at the passing Irishman as he came to rest.
His shots missed, and the tracker returned fire. But the tracker did not aim at Josiah—not at first anyway.
The first two shots were dedicated to the Negro, hitting him square in the forehead with one shot and in the belly with the other, permanently silencing the big black man.
The other shots were over the shoulder, haphazardly hitting the ground inches from Josiah as O’Reilly sought to gain control of his horse and flee as fast as he could.
Suzanne got a shot off with her derringer, but the tracker was out of range. He disappeared around the corner in a cloud of dust, before Josiah could reload.
Josiah finished loading, then stood up, dusting himself off, surprised that he had no wounds.
“You were being watched,” Suzanne said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He looked down at the Negro. “He could have just killed me.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Seems to be a habit I’m getting into. I need to pay more attention.”
“You’re not accustomed to bad men wanting you dead.”
“Not lately, no, you’re right. I don’t know what these men were after, but my guess is Charlie Langdon is close. He won’t rest until I’m dead.”
Suzanne caressed his cheek. “You have to learn to be more careful.”
“I will.”
Josiah looked down the street and saw something he didn’t understand. It only took him a second to figure out what he was looking at.
The swayback horse that was three buildings down when he’d exited the saloon was now on the ground. It looked like it was dead, shot in the melee with O’Reilly, or perhaps hit with the ricochet from the Negro’s Peacemaker. It was hard to say.
Josiah pulled the knife out of the Negro’s chest. “You mind if I borrow this?”
“No, not at all. What are you going to do?”
“Get a piece of proof to keep a good man out of the way of an evil woman,” he said, heading toward the dead horse, gripping the knife securely in his hand.
CHAPTER 25
A shiny black funeral coach sat in front of the captain’s grand house. Two large draft horses were standing nervously in front of the coach, their coats just as black as the lacquer paint on the ornately decorated wagon of death. The draperies were open, exposing an empty cargo behind thin glass panels. The coffin had yet to be loaded.
Carriages and wagons were parked four or five deep beyond the funeral coach, and a crowd of people was milling about under the portico.
The red, thunderous morning sky now not only threatened rain, it promised it. The sunrise had been wiped away by a wind that drained every bit of color but a dull gray from the roiling clouds. Leaves on the silver maples turned inside out, and anything that wasn’t battened down was in severe danger of being picked up and tossed about like it was a feather. Umbrellas were open in legion, straining against the wind, making the entire front of the captain’s house a rippling sea of black grief.
Josiah had nearly missed the march to the church, the funeral, and then the burial at the cemetery alongside the church, on a hillside in a family plot of the madam’s, overlooking the Colorado River. He had walked, then run, when the clouds became threatening. He made it back to the carriage house just before the rain let loose and began to fall in buckets.
He’d cleaned himself up the best he could, futilely wiped the mud off his boots, changed his bloody shirt, and adjusted himself as best he could, hoping all the while he would be presentable to Major Jones and Governor Coke if circumstances put him in proximity to be judged by them as an acceptable example of a Texas Ranger. That designation meant quite a lot to Josiah, especially in the wake of Captain Fikes’s death. He still had that, a designation, a bit of a future to look forward to, and it was in part the captain’s urging and belief in him that had brought on that hope . . . as well as put him in harm’s way, physically and emotionally. There was always a price for hope, but Josiah was certain that he had more than paid his way forward.
Now he stood under a large oak tree just across the lane from the house, feeling self-conscious about his lack of proper mourning attire, and lack of an umbrella to protect him from the elements.
He would have to show himself eventually, especially if Jones had arrived, like Sheriff Farnsworth said he would. But for the moment he wanted to gather himself, and clear his mind of the previous night, and the realization that he had shared more with the captain than he wanted to consider. And the confrontation with the Negro and O’Reilly still weighed heavily on his mind.
Charlie Langdon was close by and up to something big. He could feel it in his bones. O’Reilly and the Negro didn’t act on their own. They were following orders, doing as they were told. Kill Wolfe. At least he thought that was it. The Negro had his chance to kill Josiah, but he’d waited—and when the tables turned, the Irishman killed the
Negro. What was he protecting? What didn’t he want known? More importantly, why did O’Reilly think the Negro would squeal in the first place?
Josiah knew he’d have to be more aware now than he ever was if he was going to outwit Charlie Langdon. If he didn’t, he knew he was a dead man . . . and he’d never see his son again.
At that thought, Josiah started to step out from under the tree after a letup in the rain, but a voice calling his name stopped him in his tracks.
“Wolfe, where the hell you been?” Scrap pushed his way out of a crowd of black umbrellas under the portico and stalked toward Josiah.
Josiah waited under the tree, though he would have rather walked off in the opposite direction, ignoring the brash young Ranger. He didn’t feel like he owed the kid an explanation of any kind.
“You’ve been gone all night. We was worried somethin’ had happened to you,” Scrap said, coming to a stop a few feet from Josiah, the leaves shaking and blowing above them in the towering tree.
“I’m fine. I needed some time to myself. I went into town.”
“Mrs. Fikes is mighty angry at you for missin’ her meal. Best table I ever sat at, I can tell you that. You sure did miss something.”
“I bet I did.”
“Told me if I saw you I was to tell you that she wanted to see you right away.”
“Now doesn’t look to be the time.”
The sea of umbrellas parted, and six men carrying the captain’s coffin exited the house, heading directly toward the funeral coach. Mrs. Fikes followed, escorted by Governor Coke. Pearl was right behind her. It took Josiah a second to recognize her escort, dressed properly in a long black mourning coat, top hat, and a face that looked like it had never seen a speck of trail dirt. But there was no question who the man was. Pete Feders. Sergeant Peter Feders.
At least Josiah thought he was still a sergeant. Feders might be a captain by now. He sure looked like he could have stepped up in rank . . . or was going to . . . very soon.
The lane to the church quickly turned to mud. The funeral coach nearly got mired down, but the Mexicans who served under Pedro appeared out of the crowd, rocking the coach forward, unconcerned with their own appearance, ensuring that the captain got to his final destination in fine style.
The Rattlesnake Season Page 20
