Cougar's Prey (9781101544846)

by Sweazy, Larry D.

  “The Ranger?”

  “One and the same.”

  “You a Ranger?”

  Josiah hesitated. “That I am.”

  “This official?”

  “No, sir, it’s personal.”

  The operator exhaled loudly through his nose and pulled the telegraph machine to him, an ancient Morse model. It looked to be an original, making it nearly forty years old. “Who you sending this to?”

  “Ofelia Martinez in Austin.”

  “Address?”

  “Sixth and Pecan.”

  “Go on,” the telegraph operator ordered.

  “Aware of Lyle’s illness. On my way home. Day after tomorrow.” Josiah stopped, looked down at his muddy boots, then back to the operator. “That’s all,” he said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I said that’s all.”

  “Have it your way, mister. That’ll be three bits.”

  “Three bits?”

  “Four if you want to leave a message for Captain McNelly.”

  “I’m sure our paths will cross on the trail,” Josiah said, digging in his pocket. He pulled out a handful of coins and tossed the telegraph operator three of them, just like he’d been instructed.

  Arguing about money was the last thing he was going to do—or tell a stranger that he loved his son. The boy knew that was true. Josiah was sure of it.

  At least, he hoped he was.

  CHAPTER 34

  Josiah and Scrap left Goliad with a couple hours of daylight left to travel in. Weather, horses, and Scrap’s attitude cooperated, making the departure quick and trouble-free. They’d gotten everything they’d come for: enough supplies to last until they reached Austin, and a telegraph sent ahead to let Ofelia know they were on their way home. The expectation, and hope, of making contact with Captain McNelly, did not materialize.

  Josiah held more than a little quiet concern about not finding the captain in Goliad.

  It was difficult not to let Scrap’s doubt about Hughes enter his mind, but he continued to push his fears away. There was no reason to suspect Hughes of any wrongdoing, at least as far as Josiah knew. Maybe Scrap wasn’t telling him everything he knew—which would be even more unusual. Still, it was rare for Scrap to have insight so deep into a situation and offer it up for consideration. Maybe the time in Corpus Christi, left to his own devices, had been good for Scrap, matured him in a way that Josiah hadn’t thought possible.

  If only Josiah could see, or feel, a positive outcome from his own experience in Corpus, then he might be in a different spot.

  Missing McNelly gnawed at Josiah, caused him to worry more than normal, but they’d arrived early in Goliad, off schedule. Surely, Josiah reasoned silently to himself, they’d meet up with the captain, and the company, who were on their way to Corpus Christi to quell the uprising of Cortina’s men and settle the minute groups who were set on killing any Mexican, good or bad, that they encountered. Even if there was something amiss, something foul about Hughes’s intentions, the captain’s assignment was true, either way. And rushing home was the only choice Josiah had.

  He was glad to have Scrap along with him for once.

  Cuero was the next town they’d come to, some thirty miles north of Goliad. There was no way they were going to make the town before nightfall, so they would have to camp along the way—which didn’t matter as much to Josiah as when they’d first started out.

  He felt a little more relaxed as Clipper pushed north as fast as he could. There was nothing left for Josiah to do but ride, after sending word to Ofelia that he was on his way home.

  The rhythm of the ride was a comfort, the knowledge fully settled in Josiah’s mind that he was finally heading north, finally leaving the tragedy of his time near the ocean behind him. If that was possible. His heart still ached for the death of Maria Villareal, and he still could not fully accept that Juan Carlos was no longer his friend, that the old Mexican would not show himself in the difficult times ahead. And, of course, Josiah could not even imagine the sickness that had stricken Lyle. He knew nothing of the details. Perhaps it was the fevers that had taken Lily and his daughters and had come to take his son away, too. Or maybe the sickness was something else, something that could be cured by medicine and knowledge. Maybe being in the city would help create a different outcome than when they’d been so far out by themselves, as they had been in Seerville. Josiah held on to that hope for as long as he could, that this sickness was different. That Lyle would still be alive when he reached Austin.

  Miles passed, and night eased out before them as Scrap and Josiah rode straight into darkness.

  The sun was quick to fall from the sky, and the moon was hesitant to show itself. Shadows, cast down from the hills, made the trail hard to see, and finally Josiah called to Scrap, bringing Clipper to a slow, easy stop. It was time to make camp as far as he was concerned.

  Scrap agreed, even as the moon began to rise into the sky, struggling up from the distant horizon, like a flame hesitant to burn. The moon was almost full, offering a little more light as it broke free of whatever held it down on the other side of the earth. But the day was done, regardless of how much light fell on the trail.

  Josiah took care of getting both the horses settled in, roping off a small corral, and offering them a hearty helping of oats that they’d picked up in Goliad. Scrap began to collect wood for a fire, his role as certain and unspoken as Josiah’s. When it was just the two of them, cooking duties fell to Scrap. He was much better at it than Josiah was, which wasn’t saying a whole lot.

  Before long, everything was in place, the horses content, the fire rising and falling lazily under a pot of beans with a touch of fresh bacon. Both men sat before the fire, allowing the day to come to a quiet end.

  “There’s a creek that runs off the river, not too far to the west,” Scrap finally said. “Be a good spot for a bath and a shave in the mornin’, if we got time.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, if there’s a spot where the water’s not running too fast and swift,” Josiah said, sipping a cup of Scrap’s still-too-weak coffee. “I sure don’t feel much like myself.”

  “That’s ’cause you’ve been goin’ around tellin’ people your name’s Zeb Teter.”

  “I’m done with that.”

  “You sure?”

  “As soon as I see McNelly, I am.”

  “You’re quittin’?”

  Josiah shook his head no. “I don’t know what I’m doing, not for sure. I have to get home first before I make any more plans, see how things are with Lyle. But I’m going to tell McNelly that this spy business isn’t for me.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “There’s men, like Juan Carlos, who’re better suited to the kind of duty we were asked to do.”

  “If I were you,” Scrap said, “I’d forget what that damned Mexican is better suited to. He threatened to kill you.”

  “He’s still my friend.”

  “You’re not his. Not now. Probably not never. That minute group finds him and he’s a dead man, that’s for sure.”

  Josiah decided to let Scrap have his say and not defend Juan Carlos. Maybe Scrap was right about the friendship, too, but Josiah doubted it. There were some things he knew about Juan Carlos that Scrap would never know. Like the kind of heart the man truly had.

  Words retreated, and silence returned between the two men. No tension existed, just the reality that they could disagree and still remain in each other’s company. Josiah did worry about Juan Carlos’s well-being, though. Scrap was right about the minute groups.

  The fire crackled and popped—the wood Scrap had scavenged was a little green. Smoke kept changing directions as a slight bit of wind played around the camp like a confused child. Insects buzzed about, legs sawing together in harmony, seeking mates, adding to the music of the night.

  Somewhere in the distance, not too far away, a big cat screamed, a cougar making its presence known, and Josiah sat up straight, pulling himself out
of the lulled state he’d allowed himself to fall into.

  There was always a threat just beyond the darkness, but sometimes it was nice to forget, even if just for a minute.

  Morning came much too soon as far as Josiah was concerned. Scrap had drawn last watch and was nowhere to be seen.

  Spring offered cool mornings, and this one was no exception. The sky was still gray and peppered with clouds. The wind that had played with the fire the night before was still present but less confused and more certain of its direction. It was coming out of the southwest, bringing with it moist air that promised a day not of storms but of uncertainty. It didn’t matter much. A hurricane couldn’t have stopped Josiah from heading toward home.

  He pulled himself out of his bedroll and tried the best he could to wake up. The first thing he did was make sure his guns were where he’d left them. Both the Peacemaker and the Winchester were within reach.

  The flames from the fire had died, leaving orange embers breathing in and out, trying to stay alive, until the wind kicked up fiercely enough to return it to life. Josiah felt the same way.

  He eased his way down the trail, the Peacemaker in his hand, heading to the creek to clean himself for the day, still only half-awake. A gunshot about fifty yards ahead of him got his attention and woke Josiah fully. He stopped, pulled the hammer back on his gun, and waited, trying to blend into the shadow of a tall oak tree.

  The brush, not far from where the shot came from, stirred. Josiah raised his gun just as a rabbit broke free from the heavy thickets, running wild-eyed, straight at him.

  Surprised, and relieved, Josiah took a deep breath, sighted the rabbit, and pulled the trigger.

  The rabbit flipped back a few feet, somersaulting to a stop at Scrap’s feet.

  Scrap was panting, holding his rifle, an angry and perplexed look on his face. “I can’t believe I missed the galldarned thing, Wolfe. Damn it,” he said, squatting to look at the rabbit. “You shot its head plumb off.”

  Josiah made his way to Scrap, a smile growing on his face. “Got lucky, I guess. Right place, right time.”

  “I can’t believe I missed it.” Scrap stood up and kicked the dirt.

  “Looks like we got breakfast.”

  “Looks like.”

  Josiah reached down and picked up the rabbit by the tail, leaving the head for whatever would find it appetizing.

  Scrap joined Josiah, and they walked side by side.

  They crested the hill, which gave them a view of their camp and the world beyond. Dust rose in the distance like a coming storm. There were more horses with men on them than Josiah could count in a quick second.

  He stopped, strained his eyes, and hoped like hell that it was Captain McNelly and the company of Texas Rangers, set on rescuing Corpus Christi and bearing news about Lyle.

  CHAPTER 35

  McNelly led the company of Rangers straight into Josiah and Scrap’s camp. Dust followed the riders, offering a fresh taste of dirt, but any fear that Josiah or Scrap may have felt about their impending approach was replaced by relief.

  A look of surprise was plastered across McNelly’s usually stern face. The horse he sat on was a big gray mare and made him look smaller than he was. Consumption showed on every ounce of McNelly’s thin frame, but there was no weakness to be seen in his eyes. He was remarkably free of dust or dirt—somehow McNelly always managed to remain impeccably clean. He was dressed comfortably—no uniform was required even for a captain of the Texas Rangers—in riding pants and a button-down shirt, all perfectly aligned. There was no mistake that he was in charge of the thirtysome-odd men that had come to a stop behind him.

  “Wolfe, Elliot, I thought I was to meet you in Goliad?” McNelly demanded, his voice echoing off in the distance.

  Josiah stepped forward, the headless rabbit still dangling from his hand. “Bowman sent word from you while Elliot and I were out rounding up a herd of strays. Said that my son had been stricken with a sickness. I understood the orders, sir, but that news changed our direction. I was not going to spend one more second than I had to wasting time to get home.”

  McNelly slid off his saddle gracefully, landing on both feet at once. He held a cough in his chest and turned his head to let it out as delicately and unnoticed as possible before he walked up to Josiah, stopping inches from him. He was about a head shorter. “I do not know of any man named Bowman, Wolfe. You must be mistaken.”

  The company remained quiet; only the horses made any kind of noise—snorts and hoofs dancing nervously on the gravelly ground. All eyes were on the two men. Scrap stood silently next to Josiah, not daring to interfere, smart enough to avoid the conversation.

  Josiah could hardly believe his ears. “What do you mean you don’t know any man named Bowman? Is my son sick or not?”

  “You need to watch your tone, Sergeant,” McNelly said. “Or do I need to remind you of proper procedure? Surely, you have not forgotten the chain of command in your long absence from the regular Rangers?”

  “Being a spy or away from Austin for such a long stretch was not my idea . . . sir.” A pulse of energy tingled at the end of Josiah’s fingers, and he fought not to curl his hand into a fist. Such an action would be a show of disrespect, and the consequences for his fist-making could be dire, regardless of intent.

  “It was, however, your own volition that led to the assignment in Corpus Christi, Ranger Wolfe. I am not here to rehash that decision, and nor should you be. Your presence in Austin was troublesome. Just as I find your presence, at the moment, troubling. It seems a habit with you, Wolfe.”

  Silence settled between the two men, as they stared directly into each other’s hard-as-steel eyes.

  Josiah was angry and confused. The last thing he’d expected, once he identified the coming riders as McNelly and the boys, was a confrontation . . . and news that McNelly had no idea who Don Bowman was.

  “May we speak in private, sir?” Josiah asked, through gritted teeth.

  “I think that is a fine idea, Sergeant. You can leave the rabbit for a stew.”

  With his fingers still feeling tingly, Josiah had nearly forgotten that he was holding the meat for breakfast. Time had stopped for him, even though the sun was proceeding to march upward into the sky. He thrust the rabbit at Scrap. “Here, do something with this.”

  Scrap took the rabbit, holding it out away from him to keep the blood from dripping on his boots. He had an incredulous look on his face but said nothing, just glared at Josiah.

  McNelly walked toward the crest of the hill. He didn’t say anything until he’d reached the top and faced Josiah.

  “Your son is sick, Wolfe. Seriously ill.”

  The tingling traveled from Josiah’s fingers to his brain. He could barely breathe. “Why did you say you didn’t know Bowman?” he asked, once he was able to mouth the words out loud.

  “Because I don’t. I sent word to the telegraph operator. How that information was parlayed to you was out of my field of knowledge. I just felt it important that you know. I also wrote that you and Elliot were to wait in Goliad for me.”

  “I was not given that information.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I would not lie to you, sir. It serves no purpose. But I may have acted as I have, and headed to Austin, regardless of a charge of dereliction of duty. My son is all that I have left in this world, and nothing will keep me from rushing to him in an hour of need. Surely, you understand that.”

  “I do, Wolfe. But do you remember what I told you when I assigned you to Corpus Christi?”

  Josiah nodded yes. “Trust no one.”

  “Exactly right. I am even uncertain of some of the men in the company, and whose allegiance they hold true to heart as we ride to face Cortina, to restore peace and order by dissolving the minute groups. They could be spies just as you were a spy. These are difficult times, and money is at the root of the troubles, while justice must wait, or be buried on the verge of showing itself.”

  Josiah craned his
ear toward McNelly as the man spoke. His voice was raspy, and his words were difficult to understand at times. “How could you not trust all of your men?”

  “The same way I do not trust you, Wolfe. Do not forget that. Or the fact that you have continued to make enemies in Austin, even though you have not been present to stir the pot.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Captain.”

  “The newspapers have not forgotten your name—thanks, in large part, to the Widow Fikes. And trust me, neither has Juan Cortina. You are well-known in parts of Texas that you don’t even know exist.”

  “That matters little to me, sir. I only wish to continue home and see my son. What happens beyond that is out of my control.”

  “True enough. I will wish you well then. You are excused from duty, Wolfe. Ride fast to Austin. You are needed there,” McNelly said, dismissing Josiah with a simple wave of the hand.

  It didn’t take long for a quick camp to be set up by the company of Rangers. The horses were properly corralled, with a fire roaring and men milling about, all of them anxious to get back on the trail, since they’d just reentered active service after nearly the entire winter off to do whatever they did when they weren’t Rangering.

  Josiah and Scrap were preparing to leave, to head north, instead of south with the rest of the company.

  They were finishing up packing their saddlebags after a quick bite of breakfast. The planned baths in the creek had not materialized. They had lost more time than they had counted on, because of McNelly’s arrival. Still, it was a relief to be free of orders to rejoin the fight in Corpus Christi. If that had not occurred, Josiah was ready to leave the service of the Texas Rangers right then and there. He was going home to Austin regardless.

  Once he was fully prepared to leave, Josiah sought out McNelly. Scrap was right behind him.

  They found the captain in a tent, staring at a large map. His forehead was sweaty, and there was a smell inside the tent that reminded Josiah of a saloon, of yeasty beer and liquor, but this smell was more like medicine than spirits.