“And you think Caine is just a soldier?”
“Sí, señor, I do. He is not as powerful a man as he thinks he is. He just carries out orders.”
“How do you know this? Who does Caine answer to?”
“That I do not know.”
“If we find the man who’s giving orders, then we’ll most likely find the man behind the killings? Is that what you’re saying? That’s why they have Myra Lynn? To make sure Scrap gets hanged, and the killings get swept under the rug, and they can go on doing whatever it is they’re up to?”
“I think that might be it. But it could be more, or less, than that. Me he equivocado antes. I have been wrong before.”
It didn’t take long for Josiah to decide what to do next. He exhaled heavily. “We have to rescue her. Find out what she saw. If she’s being coerced, then we’ll have to see her to the trial to tell the truth for what it is, not because she fears for her life.”
“Or Señor Elliot’s. It is hard telling what they have threatened her with, señor. There is nothing Caine is above doing to survive. You must know that.”
“I do.” Josiah stiffened, stood silent for a long second. “All right. I need to peek inside, make sure Lyle is all right and see if Ofelia needs anything before we make our plans.”
“I understand, Señor Josiah, I understand. I think it is best if we do this in the dead of night. Rest for a few hours. I will wake you when it is the best time to catch them by surprise.”
Before Josiah could object, or add to the plan, Juan Carlos slid back into the shadows of the small house and disappeared down the street.
* * *
Ofelia was sitting on a cot alongside the outside wall, close to the window. Josiah was sure she’d heard everything said between him and Juan Carlos.
A lamp burned with a low flame, providing enough light in the house for Josiah to see one foot in front of the other. He could find his way to the small bedroom blindfolded, but he appreciated Ofelia’s consideration. She was such a big part of his life that he couldn’t even begin to think of living in the city, or anywhere else for that matter, without her.
The sting on his face from Pearl’s slap had long vanished, but the pain had just fallen to his heart. As comfortable as he was with Ofelia in his house, he was just as uncomfortable with Pearl in his life, and in his heart. If there was any pain to be felt, it was there. But now was not the time to worry about what might or might not be. He just hoped he could set things straight with Pearl, if that was even possible, before he left with the company of Rangers.
Josiah padded by Ofelia, neither of them speaking a word. The Mexican woman just nodded solemnly and laid down on the cot, pulling a thin blanket over her, not taking her eyes off him.
He stopped at the bedroom door and listened to Lyle breathing easily, letting his vision adjust to the darkness of the room.
The boy was stretched out on his bed, his own blankets tangled at his feet. Even in dim light, Josiah could see the resemblance of the boy’s face to Lily’s. A miniature reflection of a life lost, and a life missed. More heartache. More realization on Josiah’s part that he would be leaving again soon, missing more of the boy’s days.
He hated to admit it, but sometimes being away was easier on him, not seeing the resemblance, not being forced to remember what once was, and to consider what would not and could never be again. As much as he’d thought he’d pushed through the grief of losing his family, he knew deep down that that was not true. He’d never gotten over losing Lily and the girls. Never. Maybe Pearl knew that, too, felt it, saw it as a chasm between them. Maybe she knew he could never love her like he’d loved the woman before her. Maybe she was better off without him. Life for her would be easier if their relationship ended, just like it was easier for him being away from Lyle for long stretches at a time.
The boy shifted in the bed then, rolled over, still asleep, turning his back to Josiah.
Josiah walked inside the room as softly as he could and covered Lyle up with the blanket, then sat down on the edge of the bed and touched the boy’s shoulder as gently as possible—not to stir him awake, but just to touch him, to make sure he was real, alive, something of himself to leave behind when he was gone.
Josiah let the minutes pass, not worried about rest, or sleep, or anything else that mattered in the world. He just wanted to see as much of Lyle as he could.
CHAPTER 33
The soft tap on the window didn’t surprise Josiah, or wake him. He’d been lying in the bed for over an hour, waiting for Juan Carlos to signal him that it was time to go.
With as much ease and silence as possible, Josiah swung his feet to the floor. The smooth pine planks were cool to his bare feet. He took a deep breath, tapped on the window softly to let Juan Carlos know he’d be right out, then leaned over Lyle, who was sleeping peacefully. There was just enough light in the room for Josiah to see the boy, though dimly; his face looked like a foggy memory. It would have to be good enough—Josiah had no clue what he was getting himself into, but he knew one thing for sure: Brogdon Caine wasn’t going to give up Myra Lynn Elliot easily, especially if he was in the thick of the killings and all that they entailed. It sure looked like that was the case, and the more Josiah thought about it, the less it surprised him.
Without hesitating, and knowing it might well be the last time, he leaned down and kissed Lyle quickly on the cheek. As his father pulled away, the boy stirred a bit, never waking, most likely playing and roughhousing in the happy dreamland that existed only in his sleep.
Josiah left the room without looking back. He had slept with his pants and undershirt on; his shirt and boots were right outside the door.
Ofelia stirred awake as Josiah sat down to put on his boots. He looked up and saw her staring at him. The last thing he wanted to do was wake Lyle, so he said nothing, just got up, walked to the pantry, and pulled out a shotgun. It looked like the one his father’d kept in the cabin in Seerville, only beside the front door, instead of hidden away, out of easy reach; it had been a compromise with Ofelia.
He padded over to the cot and offered the gun to Ofelia. She, too, had slept in her day clothes. She eased the thin blanket off her, exposing a thin-bladed boning knife she used to gut chickens, just within her grasp.
Ofelia sat up, took the shotgun, then laid back down, cuddling the gun, covering herself and the gun back up, as if it didn’t exist.
Any man coming into the house who underestimated Ofelia and her preparedness would quickly find himself in deep, deep trouble, if not dead before he knew what hit him.
There was no question in Josiah’s mind that Ofelia was prepared to die for Lyle. She had shown him as much more than once. But there was more to the knife’s presence, and he knew it. His own actions had brought trouble, and death, to the house, and to Lyle, before. Ofelia had seen it, felt it, been held hostage herself. They had never spoken of the trauma, or any residual fears she might carry because of the violence bestowed on her by Josiah’s choices. She had just come to Austin with him. No questions asked. To protect Lyle, to see him to adulthood. Josiah was sure of that.
“Tenga cuidado. Be careful,” Ofelia whispered.
Josiah nodded, grabbed up his guns, his own knife, put himself together as quietly and quickly as possible, and walked out the door without saying another word.
* * *
Juan Carlos stood in between Clipper and the black gelding with a perfect white star on its nose. The whites of the black horse’s eyes followed Josiah’s every move, judging him cautiously. Josiah had never seen the horse before but thought little of it. There was never much concerning Juan Carlos that was continually the same except his mysteriousness, his lack of predictability. Patterns were the cause of death as far as Juan Carlos was concerned, and Josiah was in agreement with that sentiment, though he was never as good at changing things up as Juan Carlos w
as.
“We will need another man, señor,” Juan Carlos said in a low voice. “This is too dangerous for just you and me.”
Before Josiah could protest, he detected movement, a man’s shadow moving toward him from behind the black horse. The man was Miguel Vargas, another Mexican that Josiah had dealt with previously.
Under the guise of a guitar player in Corpus Christi, Miguel had been a spy for McNelly, too, only Josiah hadn’t known it at the time. He only became aware of the man’s allegiances when he had been followed back to Austin by the bounty hunter Leathers, and Miguel had shown up after Josiah had killed the man. After that, Miguel disappeared, off on another mission, Josiah assumed, or doing whatever Juan Carlos did when he was away. There was no clear-cut line of duty for either Mexican. The fact that they were employed by the Texas Rangers from time to time was a closely held secret. There were far more men on the payroll than Josiah, or anyone else, knew about. He didn’t question the reasons, or the missions, but understood the need for men like Juan Carlos and Miguel completely.
“It is good to see you again, Señor Wolfe.” Miguel stuck out his hand to shake.
Miguel was younger than Juan Carlos by about twenty years, his skin darker, his solid black hair oilier; it seemed to glow in the night, like the surface of a deep pond in the moonlight.
There was no distrust between the two men, and Josiah was glad to see Miguel. The Mexican was a good shot and had plenty of experience in situations like the one they were about to face. Juan Carlos had chosen the third man well.
“It is good to see you, too, Miguel.” Josiah shook the Mexican’s hand with a broad smile.
“We always seem to meet under dire circumstances, señor.”
“It is the life we have chosen, I suppose,” Josiah said.
“Sí, señor, I believe you are right about that. Just think, I could be sitting in a cantina serenading the senoritas.”
Josiah dropped his smile as a flash of Maria Villareal, a beautiful woman in her own right, who had been killed by a mistake on his part, flashed through his mind. He looked away to Juan Carlos. “You have a plan?”
Juan Carlos nodded. “There are more men than I originally thought. Something else is going on. There are four men in the saloon waiting for something to happen. I am not sure what.”
“How many men are guarding Myra Lynn?” Josiah asked.
“Three that I am aware of.”
“Seven to three. I guess that’s a fair fight,” Josiah said.
Miguel stood back and said nothing, obviously leaving the details to Juan Carlos.
Juan Carlos shook his head no. “Nine to three if you include Brogdon Caine and William, the barkeep. He might have a broken arm, but I am sure his trigger finger is just fine.”
Josiah exhaled. “We’ll need more weapons, more ammunition.”
“I have already arranged that.” Juan Carlos flicked his head to the left.
Following the old Mexican’s directive, Josiah looked down the street and saw a wagon waiting, its cargo covered by a large tarp. “You have thought of everything.”
“As much as possible,” Juan Carlos said.
Josiah said nothing; he let the silence and coolness of the night surround them. It was a couple of hours before dawn. He began to think of what Juan Carlos had told him, what lay ahead of the three men, as he untied Clipper’s lead from the hitching post.
“Four men, you say?” Josiah asked.
“Sí,” Juan Carlos answered, cocking an eyebrow at Josiah. “Does that concern you, señor?”
“I encountered a man in the café earlier today, Milt Fulsum, the new desk sergeant at the jail. He replaced Emery Jones, the old sergeant who was killed during the jailbreak. He was with three other riders. Riders who all wore black like those that were involved in the jailbreak and took shots at us under the Tree of Death. I’m just wondering if they are all one and the same.”
“They are, Señor Josiah. One of the horses that fled from the Tree of Death had a notch in its back shoe. I tracked it into town but lost it. I found the horse itself waiting outside of the Easy Nickel Saloon.”
“Then it looks like Milt Fulsum, who was pretty nervous at the café, is not what he seems. He’s not just a deputy for Farnsworth, he’s an outlaw playing both sides of the fence. He was involved in breaking Abram Randalls out of the jail and has something to do with Brogdon Caine.”
“It looks that way, señor,” Juan Carlos said.
“Why do you say that?” Josiah asked.
Juan Carlos hesitated. “Milt Fulsum is a Texas Ranger, señor. Or, at least, he was as recently as six months ago. Just like me, and you, and Miguel, he, too, has worked as a spy for Captain McNelly.”
CHAPTER 34
After making their plans, the men rode away from the small house on Sixth Street as silently as possible. Miguel was on the black horse, and Juan Carlos drove the wagon gently, not in a hurry. Its contents were . . . fragile.
They had all agreed to keep Milt Fulsum out of their gun sights, but if the man threatened them with certain death, or the point of a rifle, then all bets were off. Texas Ranger or not, all three would shoot to kill and ask questions later. The thought, of course, gave Josiah reason to be a little more nervous than he would have been otherwise. Killing another Texas Ranger would be the end of everything for him, and he knew it. He’d most certainly have to leave Austin. His reputation would be soiled forever, no matter how justified the act was. But he knew he’d do it, kill Fulsum if he had to, no matter the consequences. Freeing Myra Lynn and seeing Juan Carlos and Miguel safe out of the coming melee was all that mattered—because in the end, it was the only way Josiah could see of clearing Scrap Elliot.
It was less than an hour until dawn. The air was cool, and the sky was void of any clouds. Any sign of impending weather had pushed out during the night, leaving a pure black blanket overhead, adorned with the communal throbbing of silvery, faraway stars. The edge of the horizon was fading to gray, a promise of coming light that had yet to wake the first bird. The moon waned, dropping to the horizon, a sliver of its true self, casting very little light on the road ahead.
As far as Josiah could tell, all of Austin slept peacefully, entombed in the normalcy of the clock, of the expectations of one day ended and another one starting. There was no rest for the weary, as far as Josiah was concerned, and most certainly no rest for Scrap Elliot, who at last word was still stowed away in the hole, restrained against the hint of the smallest shaft of light, or hope of escape.
The thought urged Josiah forward, and he brought Clipper easily up next to the slow-paced wagon.
The common silence of the deep night was as much a gift as a curse. Any man worth his salt would hear the wagon coming a mile away, no matter how quiet Juan Carlos tried to keep the drive.
They were still far enough away from the Easy Nickel Saloon to avoid detection there—unless Brogdon Caine had a radius of men set up on watch. Somehow, Josiah doubted that. Juan Carlos would have known, would have checked, would have included taking out the watch in their plans. It was an assumption, and knowingly a foolhardy act, not to question the Mexican, but Josiah felt safe in his decision, knowing full well what the Mexican’s skills included. But still, a few things gnawed at him, beyond the question of Caine’s watch.
“You’re sure of this plan?” Josiah asked, the volume of his voice just above a whisper.
Juan Carlos had a light grip on the reins, and the single horse pulling the wagon, a big, old bay draft horse, acted like it knew where it was going on its own. “Trust me, Miguel and I will create a distraction out front and draw the majority of attention away from the back of the building. You will have to deal with the one guard at the back door and make your way to the room.”
“You’re sure Myra Lynn is in the room.”
“Absolutamenta
positivo. The one marked tres. There is another man inside, maybe two. I do not know what the distraction will cause, if they are prepared for it. I feel like Caine will be ready for you, señor. But you know that already. If she is as important to their cause as I think she is, the guard will be willing to die rather than face the consecuencias, um, consequences. Are you?”
“You have to ask?”
“You have more to lose, señor. A home, a son, the promise of love and a new life on the horizon, as close as in your hand.”
“Scrap Elliot would risk everything for me.” Without realizing it, Josiah had spoken through gritted teeth.
“Sì, I believe that as much as you do, Señor Josiah. But if something happens to you, Scrap Elliot does not have to answer to Pearl—to my sobrina, my niece.”
Josiah smiled then. “I’ll do whatever it takes so you won’t have to deal with that, my friend.”
“Then you will be ready to kill again?”
“Yes.” Josiah dropped his chin, hopefully calming Juan Carlos’s fears. “The Ketchum grenades are too risky,” he said after a brief pause, his eyes narrowing, as he cast a glance back to the covered load in the wagon.
“Sì, but I have worked with them before. I am no expert, but one good hit will suffice.”
Josiah nodded. “I wouldn’t count on luck, and you may be facing what you throw.”
The grenades had been used in the War Between the States, in the major battles, like Vicksburg and Petersburg, and smaller skirmishes alike. The explosives looked like thin darts, a cast iron ball with stabilizing wood fins, and came in varying weights. The most widely used weighed a pound, but the impact and use was as small as the weight. Larger grenades weighed five pounds. The tip was armed with a plunger, and the casing contained the charge. The bad thing was that the nose had to land directly on the ground, or its target, to engage the plunger and explode.
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