“Don’t imagine it took too much skill,” Josiah said.
“You was easy enough to find, though I was doubting we’d find you by nightfall,” Hughes said. “This here’s Walt Burmer.”
“Howdy, Walt. You know Sutton here?” Josiah said, remembering to use Scrap’s spy name.
Burmer shook his head no. “No need to for usin’ different names, Ranger. Bowman told us what was up. I saw Elliot ropin’ a bit. Both of ya’s look a little out of place.”
“We were just getting our feet under us,” Josiah said, not liking the man’s tone.
Burmer shrugged. “Makes no difference to me what you call yourself.”
“Well,” Hughes said, “I’m glad we found you nonetheless, and I’m glad to see you got this here herd back together. Saves us the work. Where’d you find them?”
“ ’ Bout a day’s ride out, grazing in the scrub. Two men were with them, but they were dead. Throats cut from ear to ear. Weren’t dead too long, but dead just the same. We figured you were the rustlers come back for the herd,” Josiah said.
“Who were the men?”
“No clue. They were Mexicans, so I’m speculating that one of those minute groups from Corpus found them and killed them. They’d been stripped of anything of value.” Josiah unconsciously touched the locket in his pocket that he’d taken off the dead man’s body. He knew there was no hope of finding out who was in the picture, to lead him to figure who the man was, but he hoped to anyway. If not, the locket was no trophy, no keepsake to hold on to to remind him of the journey or the way the two had been killed. He really wanted to forget the sight of blood as soon as possible.
“Bowman send you out after us?” Scrap asked. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a quirlie that he’d obviously pre-rolled, and lit it.
Hughes nodded. “Word is there’s no Mexicans safe, which suits me just fine. You two need to head back north as soon as possible.”
“Why’s that?” Josiah asked.
“Bowman got word from your Captain McNelly.”
Josiah flinched. “What do you mean word from our captain?” He still held on to the hope that Don Bowman had not exposed their cover, but it didn’t look that way. This man knew something, and Josiah had a bad feeling growing in the pit of his gut that something was wrong. Bowman had been dead set on him and Scrap finding and returning the longhorns that were rustled, and now he’d sent a two-man crew out looking for them.
“There’s no need to be coy, Wolfe. I know you’re a Texas Ranger, not some hide trader turned cowboy named Zeb Teter. Elliot, too. Don’t much matter to me who or what you are, though. I’m just followin’ orders, fetchin’ these beef hooves and returnin’ them to the drive and sending you boys up north.”
“North to Goliad?” Scrap asked.
“No,” Hughes said. “North to Austin.” He looked directly into Josiah’s eyes. “Word came in that your son has taken ill. You need to get home as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER 32
Night fell a lot sooner than Josiah expected it to. Clouds rolled in from the west, covering the bright moon that had, just the night before, lit the trail late into the night and given Josiah and Scrap clear travel. The wind was strong, too, pelting Josiah’s face with unseen dust rising from the ground. But he could barely feel the chill of the air, the pings of dirt hitting his face, or the wind at all. Josiah was numb with fear and anger, numb with emotions he didn’t care to name.
All he wanted was to be home, to be rid of the four months he’d spent in Corpus Christi that had felt more like a sentence than an escape. He never wanted to hear the name Zeb Teter again, or think about being a spy. If that meant he was no longer welcome in the company of McNelly’s Rangers, then so be it. It was way past time to return to Austin and face whatever waited there for him. No matter the price of his action, killing Pete Feders and making an enemy of the Widow Fikes, it was not worth losing sight of Lyle for long stretches of time.
Josiah was not a praying man, even when it came to the thought of losing his son to some mysterious sickness. He knew all about sickness and praying, knew better than most that there were no words, silent or spoken, that would change the natural cycle of whatever had caused the illness in the first place. He had buried too many of his loves to believe in magic, religious or any other kind.
Once Hughes had said that Lyle was sick, there was no stopping Josiah, no turning back. He tore out northward like a fire had been lit under Clipper’s rump. If only the horse had wings.
Scrap followed after Josiah, keeping a respectable distance; close enough to let Josiah know he was there, not alone, but far enough away to discourage any conversation. The luck of good weather was all they needed.
Unfortunately, that brand of luck seemed to have run out. Not long after the wind stirred and decided to push straight across the rugged South Texas ground, thunder, lightning, then rain followed. Brief and intermittent at first, then the clouds unleashed every ounce of moisture they’d been saving up.
The season of opportunity was also the season of rain, of massive downpours and relentless storms, which was all well and good for wildflowers and farmers but not for a man fighting to get home to his son.
Josiah pushed on, taking little notice of the mud, of shallow puddles and rivulets forming in the dry ground. There was no hesitation to Clipper’s gait, but the horse had slowed a bit, the ground harder to navigate, harder to get a thrust forward on from the last attempt to run as fast as possible.
Lightning danced overhead, disappearing as quickly as it spiked across the roiling sky, leaving the trail nearly black. Josiah’s eyes were under constant strain to adjust, always looking for the way forward. Rain replaced the dust pelting Josiah’s face, and though he knew he should stop, he just couldn’t bring himself to.
There was no way he could reach Austin in an hour or a day, but one more step was one step closer to home.
Finally, he couldn’t see past the night or beyond the rain, could not risk hurting Clipper, and decided to stop when a streak of lightning lit up the sky like it was daylight and revealed a thick stand of trees ahead of them. He slowed Clipper to a trot, the rain pushing the sweat and lather off the Appaloosa’s firm but tired neck.
Scrap was next to him in the blink of an eye. “We can’t go on, Wolfe.”
“I know that,” Josiah yelled back. “I know that.” Rain streamed down his face. His heart raced so hard he thought it was going to jump out of his chest. His fingers were numb, the feeling long gone. The taste of salt stung his tongue, and it only took him a second to realize that he was tasting his own tears.
The fire was small but valiant. They had followed the creek north as far as they could, until it turned into a river with an outcropping that offered cover from the storm in a widening burst of limestone formations, just beyond the pecan grove Josiah had sighted.
Scrap took a ration of beans and a small pan from his saddlebag and set about cooking up some dinner to have with some biscuits he’d stuck in his pack the day before. Coffee boiled in a small pot. Both men had changed out of their wet clothes and hung them on a line Scrap had strung over the fire. Luckily, they both had another set of clothes along with them, tucked inside their slickers, for instances such as this.
Scrap smoked one of his quirlies as he tended to the beans, while Josiah sat at the edge of the rocks under an overhang, watching the storm play out to the east, losing its strength the farther away from them it got.
Thunder continued to boom, vibrating the earth under Josiah’s feet, and the rain was easing, from a downpour to just a steady drizzle. Beyond the light of the fire, there was only pitch blackness. It was like they were locked in a cave, even though it was a three-sided enclosure. Josiah felt even more trapped than he had in Corpus. His body ached, and he was tired, but the urge to keep going was strong. If it hadn’t been for the storm, he knew he would have pressed on, regardless of the danger.
Clipper and Missy, who were far more comfortable in each ot
her’s company, huddled together not far from Scrap. They looked happy for the rest.
The smell of beans mixed with the smoke from the fire, but did little to rouse any hunger from Josiah. Not even when Scrap brought him a bowl and shoved it under his nose.
“Here, take this.”
Josiah looked up, his eyes tinged with anger. “Eat it yourself.”
Scrap stared at him for a second, started to say something, then walked off. He dumped the beans back into the pot, then found himself a comfortable spot in the shadows and ate his own dinner.
Josiah watched the storm roll on and felt just as much turmoil inside as out, but as the night drew on, and Scrap kept his distance, he began to realize that he was doing the best he could, that he could not get home any faster than he was.
A couple of hours after he’d rejected the beans, Josiah rolled out his bedroll, shuffled over to the fire, and settled in for the night. It took only a second for sleep to come and take him away.
Nightmares did not visit Josiah, only the darkness of deep, refreshing sleep. Surprisingly, the aches he’d felt the night before were gone when he woke. It took him a second or two to remember where he was, and why he was there, but once he did, he was amazingly clearheaded, and far less stricken than he was when he’d first heard the news that Lyle was sick.
The smell of coffee touched his nose, and Scrap had already been up and about, getting the horses, and himself from the look of things, tended to in the nearby river. He was fresh as a man could be who’d been on the trail for as long as he had.
“You’re awake,” Scrap said with a faint smile, easing into the camp.
Josiah’s stomach grumbled. “Awake enough to be hungry.”
“There’s biscuits in the tin there.”
Josiah looked to the fire, saw the tin, nodded, then hurried behind some bushes to relieve himself.
The only signs of the storm from the night before were soft, muddy, ground and the sound of a full-to-the-brim San Antonio River rushing not far from where Josiah was standing. Otherwise, the sun was rising in a crystal clear blue sky. The morning was cool, but it looked to be a warm day, not too hot to ride hard and fast in.
Done, Josiah went off to clean up, then returned to the camp to dress and eat.
“We ought to hit Goliad this afternoon, if I’m figurin’ right,” Scrap said, taking a spot across from Josiah.
Josiah sipped a cup of hot coffee. It was weak and tasted bad, but he wasn’t going to complain. Campfire cooking was not one of Scrap’s talents. Josiah just appreciated the effort. “Probably a day or so early to meet up with McNelly.”
“Yup, probably so. We’ll pass ’em on the trail to Austin, I’m sure of it.”
“We can restock in Goliad, and I’ll send a telegraph home to let them know I’m on my way.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
Scrap shrugged. “I don’t know. Just might be some people lookin’ out for ya that might cause trouble. It still don’t make any sense to me that those rustlers were left behind with their throats cut and no sign of anything or anyone else. Why wouldn’t the killer take the longhorns? Don’t you think that was what they were after?”
“Hard to say. Maybe we came along and spooked whoever was up to no good. Stealing from a couple of thieves takes some courage. And there wasn’t any sign of Miguel, the Mexican I saw shoot down and stampede the cows in the first place. I got to wonder where he’s at, and what he’s up to, but Ofelia needs to know I’m fine. Shadows and fear aren’t going to keep me away from my son. Not now when he needs me the most. Not since I’ve been gone for so long.” Josiah’s voice cracked, and he looked away from Scrap.
“I know what this means to you,” Scrap said.
There was nothing Josiah could say. Over the time he and Scrap had spent together, he’d told Scrap bits and pieces of his past, of the story about Lily and the girls. So Scrap knew that Lyle was all that Josiah had left in the world.
Josiah ate the last of a biscuit and downed his coffee. “You ready?”
“I’m just waitin’ on you.”
CHAPTER 33
Goliad came into view not long after noon. Josiah and Scrap broke off the trail along the San Antonio River and made their way over to the road that led into town. One of the first things they saw was the Presidio La Bahia, a dark gray stone fortress with thick walls and a church tower, adorned with a simple cross, rising into the clear sky. The building stretched on for a good city block, the shadows falling full on Josiah and Scrap, offering a dose of gloom that didn’t need encouragement. Quietness surrounded them as they trotted by.
“A lot of blood on the ground here,” Josiah said.
Scrap was riding alongside him. “I don’t see anything.”
Josiah shook his head. “No, in the past. A lot of men lost their lives fighting the Revolution. The first Declaration of Independence of the Republic of Texas was signed here.”
“But it’s a church.”
“It is and has been here for well on over a hundred years.”
“How come people are always fightin’ in the house of the Lord, Wolfe?”
“Don’t know. Probably because people think God needs a big building to live in.”
“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard.”
“You asked. I answered.”
“If you say so.
“I do.”
Scrap eased Missy’s pace to a slow gait and removed his hat in honor as they came to the far corner of the Presidio La Bahia. He didn’t say another word until they were out of the shadow of the building. “I would’ve fought them Mexicans.”
“From the look of things, we still are,” Josiah said, looking over his shoulder at the fortress. “Maybe someday that war will be over.”
“I doubt it.”
“Me, too.”
The main street of Goliad was not that much different than any other South Texas town. A row of buildings—mostly wood frame, though a few were constructed of brick—lined both sides of the street. The majority were two storeys, but a few were one, like the telegraph office just inside the proper entrance of the town.
“I’m going to stop here,” Josiah said. “You go on up to the marshal’s office and check in there, see if there’s been any sign of McNelly, or any word from him. I’ll join you when I’m done here.”
“You ever stop to think that fella was makin’ up the story about Lyle bein’ sick?”
“Hughes? Why would he do that? And more to the point, how did he know about Lyle in the first place if he was making it up?”
“I don’t know. Things haven’t felt right since we left Corpus, if’n you go an’ ask me. I was just wonderin’, that’s all. I’m not much for Mexicans, but I can’t get those dead men’s faces out of my mind, Wolfe.”
“Well, we’re a day’s ride away, what would it have accomplished?”
“Coulda been nothin’ more than a cause to get us away from those stampede strays so he could have ’em to himself. Lot of money there.”
Josiah scrunched his shoulders. “I don’t know, that doesn’t make much sense to me, Elliot, but I suppose you could be right. We’ll find out soon enough, once we land in Austin.”
“What if we’re not really supposed to go to Austin, and we’re really supposed to meet up with McNelly like we planned? And we don’t? That could be the end of my Rangerin’ days.”
“You’re taking orders from me, right?”
“Suppose so.”
“Then it’ll be my ignorance that’s the cause of falling for Hughes’s trick—if it is that at all—not yours. You worry too much about losing your job.”
“It’s all I got.”
“I don’t believe that at all, Elliot. Not for a minute.”
Silence fell between the two men. Josiah was heartened that Scrap had thought there might be something amiss with Hughes showing up and delivering the news about Lyle. But he doubted Scrap was right.
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“We need to re-stock,” Scrap finally said. “I’m plumb out of beans and coffee. I wasn’t expectin’ to be away from the chuck wagon so long.”
Josiah nodded. “We’re not going to get too comfortable here. We’ve still got about a hundred and thirty miles or so to travel.”
“Fair enough.” With that, Scrap flipped Missy’s reins a bit, then turned and headed up the street to the marshal’s office.
Josiah waited a second, then dismounted from Clipper and walked inside the telegraph office.
The telegraph operator was a burly man with white pork chop sideburns and a clean-shaven face. He had suspicious eyes and looked Josiah up and down before saying hello.
“Need to send a telegraph,” Josiah said, “and make sure there aren’t any messages for me.”
“What’s the name?”
“Wolfe. Josiah Wolfe.”
The operator thumbed through some papers lying in front of him. His desk was neatly organized, and the inside of the office was as clean as a freshly swept pen. “No, don’t see anything here.”
“You’re sure?”
“If there was something here with the name of Wolfe on it, I’d sure as heck know, mister.” The man was dressed in a typical black operator uniform with a black-billed hat, freshly starched white shirt, and a string tie. He spoke with as much authority as he looked like he carried. “I’ll have you know I’ve been the operator here since the office opened. I know my job.”
Josiah put up both hands, as if to fend the man off, even though he hadn’t moved an inch or threatened to stand up. “No need to get all riled up, I’m just asking.”
The operator studied Josiah’s face, obviously looking for a sign that he was telling the truth, then bit the corner of his lip. “Who you expecting a telegraph from?”
Josiah sighed. He had spent the last four months of his life pretending to be someone else; it was hard to state his own business. “Might be something from Captain Leander McNelly. At least, I was hoping there was.”
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