The eggs were cooked perfectly, sharing a plate with corn tortillas, mashed up beans, fried more than once, topped with a tomato-chili sauce and some strands of fresh white cheese. The aroma was comforting. He had eaten a similar dish in his own home, from a skillet prepared by Ofelia, many times. But he was not hungry now, and the weakness he had initially felt when he sat down was growing instead of going away, draining what strength he had left. He could barely sit up straight.
“Have you told anyone about us?” Josiah asked. “Who we really are?”
Adolfo shook his head no. “Señor Elliot told us of your mission. He asked me not to spread any more news than I had to.” He stopped fidgeting then, dropped his hands to his side, and stiffened.
“He threatened you, didn’t he?”
Adolfo shook his head no again.
“He threatened Francesca?”
Adolfo looked away, then back to Josiah quickly, with warm and unflinching eyes. “You are safe here, Señor Wolfe. There is no worry about your story. It is my honor to feed you, to care for you. Now, eat, before your meal gets cold. You need to regain your strength.”
“Why? Why would you do this?” Josiah said, pushing away his anger at Scrap, knowing full well the boy wouldn’t harm Francesca. He was just young, trying to find any source of power he could. Intimidation was an easy path.
“We are not the enemy, Señor Wolfe,” Adolfo answered, his voice finally calm, his eyes settling directly on Josiah, not looking away. “And besides, we have mutual conocimientos, um, acquaintances. You will see.”
Before Josiah could say anything else, Adolfo hurried away, disappearing inside the cantina.
It wasn’t long before a clatter of pots and pans filled the air.
Josiah sat at the table for almost an hour, his appetite as weak as the rest of him. Still, he managed to eat half a plate of the savory food, drinking water more than anything.
The spicy eggs settled easily in his stomach, and he started to feel better, more flushed with energy than without. His face stung as the air caressed his skin. There was no way to attach the bandage, and Francesca had told him that the fresh air would do it good, so the pellet wound was exposed. It was covered with salve and at times burned like it was on fire. When he reached up to touch his face, he could only feel the gooiness of the salve. He didn’t dare press harder, fearing the pain. It smelled like the inside of a cactus, broken open for its succulence and nourishment. There would be a scar, but that was the least of his concerns. He only wanted to get better, to be ready to ride back to the Ranger camp when Scrap returned.
Francesca had disappeared. He hadn’t seen her since she had left his room. Adolfo ventured in and out of the cantina now and then, checking on him, making sure there was water for him to drink, that he was still in the shade. Josiah didn’t ask about Francesca, even though he wanted to. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to know if she was real, or just another vision, a painful response to his need for comfort after being shot. For all he knew, Adolfo was the only one tending to him, and Francesca was only a figment of his imagination. It would have been easier if that were the truth.
CHAPTER 10
A cart pulled by a pair of haggard oxen ambled down the street. Arroyo had little to offer any travelers or its residents; a few adobe buildings along with the mission, a mercantile of sorts, and another building that looked shuttered, closed for business of any kind. For whatever reason, prosperity had overlooked the town and the people who had chosen to call it home.
There had been no horse traffic since Josiah had been sitting on the veranda, so the cart caught his attention, and raised his concern about his own safety, as well as Adolfo’s and Francesca’s, since he was sitting alone and unarmed.
He stiffened in the chair, knowing he had little energy, or time, to hurry off to his room and find his gun—which he didn’t know where to find. Not a good thing since an uncertain need of it had arisen. The realization sat uncomfortably in his stomach, and he knew he’d need to see to rearming himself sooner rather than later. He hoped the man driving the cart was just another Mexican passing through, or arriving home, and nothing more. The sun was in his eyes, and it was difficult to tell much about the driver’s features, whether he might be friend or foe.
The breakfast had done little to rid Josiah of the weakness that had greeted him when he’d awoken. It increased instead of fading as he had hoped. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as quickly as he could wipe them away, and he shivered unknowingly, thinking it was only a reaction to the fear he felt, the exposure and vulnerability of being alone in an unknown place. Josiah was not accustomed to what he was feeling.
He started to get up and realized he was too weak to stand. His balance was off, and suddenly the world was spinning.
The sky was the ground and the ground was the sky.
If there were clouds, or any weather at all, Josiah couldn’t tell. Everything was growing dark. He thought to call out, but his voice caught in his throat, leaving him a prisoner inside his body, any and all control of his functions and fear lost as the darkness quickly turned to black.
* * *
Josiah awoke in bed, staring at a familiar face.
“It is good to see you, mi amigo,” Juan Carlos said.
Josiah’s mouth was dry. He felt like he had been walking in the desert for months, starved of food and water. He knew it was a great possibility that he was dreaming, that the man hovering over him wasn’t really Juan Carlos Montegné, half brother of Hiram Fikes, uncle to his Pearl, as well as a friend and a savior who had stood between him and death on more than one occasion. If this was a dream, it would make sense that his mind had conjured Juan Carlos.
A glass full of water appeared at his lips, and Josiah drank it hungrily, slowly accepting the reality that he was still among the living. He flicked his eyes open and closed them as fast as he could, trying to focus, to make sure he was seeing straight. It was Juan Carlos he was staring at, and any fear he felt in the recesses of his body dissipated. He knew he was safe now.
After drinking all of the water, he was able to speak, but only softly. His throat was coarse, like his voice box had been dragged through rough sand. “It is good to see you, too. How did you get here?”
“I drove the ox.” Juan Carlos smiled, pulled away, and sat the glass gently on the table. “You have a bad infection, señor. I fear for your life.”
“No, no, how did you know I was here?” Josiah tried to look past Juan Carlos, but the room was dark, lit by the coal oil sconce on the wall and nothing else. The curtains were drawn, and no other light made its way into the room. Josiah didn’t know what time it was, or whether it was night or day. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room.
“Señor Elliot told me. He is on the hunt for one of Cortina’s men?”
Josiah nodded yes. “He is all right?”
“Yes, he was the last time I saw him. He will be fine. It is you that I worry about.”
“The tide has turned.”
Juan Carlos forced a smile at Josiah’s remark, recalling the time not so long ago that he, Juan Carlos, was shot, in bad shape, lost in the in-between world of life and death, fighting the hard battle to live, to take up arms another day.
Juan Carlos was much older than Josiah. His hair was white as snow on a mountaintop, a stark contrast to his wrinkled, brown skin, darkened by many hours in the sun. In the winter, his skin lightened, revealing his Anglo heritage to anyone who noticed that kind of thing. Most people didn’t. One drop of Mexican blood made him Mexican through and through to the purists.
There were days when Josiah was among those men who believed that a Texan and an Anglo should be one and the same—but there were other times, simpler times, when the color of a man’s skin didn’t matter. He had been shown over and over again that a man’s character came from his heart and was not a matter of skin color th
at he had no control over. If all Mexicans were unworthy, Josiah would be long dead and not lying in a sickbed in a cantina, tended to by Mexicans all around. This was one of those moments when differences didn’t matter.
“We are going to have to cauterize the wound on your shoulder, Señor Josiah. It is the only way we know to stop the enfermedad, the sickness, from spreading,” Juan Carlos said. There was deep concern on his face.
Almost as if on command, the door opened and Adolfo walked in, holding a glowing red branding iron. There was no brand, just a strip of metal that had been set under a hot fire for a long time. The tip of the rod smoked and was as red as the sun on the hottest day of the year.
“Here, bite on this.” Juan Carlos offered Josiah a rag rolled up from end to end. “Open your mouth.” It was an order.
Josiah shook his head no. “Isn’t there any other way?” Fear stuck in his vocal cords, and his voice quivered. He felt like a child who had fallen down a well with no way out.
“There is no medicine that will work quickly enough,” Juan Carlos said. “You will surely die if we do nothing. The salves have only made the wound worse. I have come a very long way, and I do not wish to bury you on this trip. You will have to trust me, and Adolfo. It is the only way, mi amigo.”
Josiah took a deep breath and reluctantly opened his mouth.
Juan Carlos plunged the rag into his mouth then, offering little gentleness. “It will be over before you know it. Bite hard. There will be whiskey on the other side of the pain to ease it and help with the healing.”
Adolfo didn’t hesitate, didn’t give Josiah any more time to protest, to respond to the fear and anticipation that was rising from his toes to the top of his skull. He stepped next to Juan Carlos, who nodded and stepped out of the way but remained close.
The flame in the sconce flickered, causing shadows to dance on the wall and ceiling.
Josiah could smell the hot iron, feel the heat as it came closer to his skin. He tensed, readied himself for the oncoming pain, but was momentarily relieved to see another figure enter the room and stand just inside the door.
He knew it was Francesca, and for whatever the reason, her presence made a difference, calmed him, when Adolfo jammed the hot iron against the throbbing wound.
Josiah screamed as loud as he was able. His voice was muffled, and somehow, with a swiftness he had not seen in a while, Juan Carlos was at his side, anchoring him down as Adolfo continued to grind the iron into his shoulder.
Steam rose from his skin, and the smell of burning flesh filled the room. It was the smell of war, the smell of death. As he struggled to escape, and give in to the treatment at the same time, Josiah felt another hand touch him.
Francesca had moved from the shadows to the opposite side of the bed. She reached out to touch Josiah’s face, caressing him, murmuring words that sounded more like a child’s lullaby than anything else.
For the second time in a matter of hours, Josiah surrendered to the pain, to the circumstance he’d found himself in, and welcomed the darkness as it came. Only this time, there was a song to accompany him on his journey, a soft touch to see him off.
He could only hope that Francesca was close by when he woke again . . . if that was his luck.
CHAPTER 11
The room was empty. Darkness surrounded Josiah, and for a long moment he listened to see if he could hear anything other than his own breathing and heartbeat. There was nothing, not even the distant cluck of a chicken. A black cloak had fallen over the world, covering him along with it.
He stared at the ceiling, glad that he felt very little pain. His face still stung, but the salve that had been placed there seemed to have worked. The bandage was off, and thankfully, infection hadn’t set into that wound. Taking a branding iron to his face was beyond the grasp of his imagination. The pain would last long beyond the initial sizzle, and the scar would ride with him for the rest of his life. A reminder of his failure to see what was coming next with the two unnamed men in the cantina. A closer fight, one with worthier opponents, and the same outcome would have been easier to carry. But he didn’t have to worry about that. The deeper scar he would carry, if he lived on to see another day, would be hidden, like most of his other scars. His face would be changed though, in time. He just didn’t know how, nor did he much care at the moment. He was just glad to be breathing, to be awake, and alive.
Josiah had no idea what day it was, how much time he had lost since the red-hot iron had been placed against his skin. All he knew was that it was night, that he’d spent more time in bed in the past few days than he’d ever imagined he would. Not that he wasn’t grateful for the care he’d received—he was. More than grateful, was the truth of it. Especially now that he was awake, and had been saved from a trip to the land of the dead.
If that had been the outcome, his only regret would have been leaving Lyle behind, an orphan in an unforgiving world. But that was not the case, either. Adolfo and Juan Carlos had saved his life. Francesca, too. He didn’t know how he was ever going to repay that debt, but he knew he would try. He had to try—once he was able to get back up on his feet again.
With a deep breath, bracing himself for an onslaught of pain, Josiah pulled himself up against the headboard of the bed from a prone position. He favored his unharmed, strong shoulder, the left one, and there was little pain, just tenderness and weakness that felt familiar to him. Though this wound was not as deep or severe as the Lost Valley knife wound, it was the infection that had threatened him, an unseen foe in league with other invisible enemies trying to snuff out his life—and those of the ones he loved, too.
Losing Lily and the girls to a Comanche attack would have been easier than losing them to influenza. It would have given Josiah something to hate, something to go after, something to never give up on. Revenge was a powerful drug, and it was hard to hold that deep emotion against something he couldn’t see, understand, or fight.
As Josiah’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to make out shadows, see the wall, the curtain-clad window, a bit of gray light slipping in under the door. The cloak of black was not as thick as he’d thought, but it was still deep into the night—or he had lost his ability to see clearly, to see colors and light. It was a consideration that left him uncertain, hoping that it was wrong.
He flinched at the recognition that someone was sitting in the corner, a faceless wraith staring straight at him. Not that he could see the person’s eyes, he couldn’t, but he felt the gaze penetrating into him.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” Josiah said, his voice raw, his throat dry and in need of water. He instinctively glanced over to the table for his gun, but could see no sign of it.
No answer came, causing a bit of fear to rise up Josiah’s spine.
What if it was the third man looking for his own set of revenge against those who had killed his amigos? Or Cortina himself, no less a myth to Josiah at this point, a bedtime story come alive to deliver evil and death in one fell swoop, instead of greedily rustling cattle in the darkness?
Any pain Josiah felt immediately left his body. It was his first clue that the cauterization had stopped the spread of infection, and that some serious time had most assuredly gone by since the procedure had been applied.
“Who’s there?” Josiah demanded again, pulling himself higher in the bed, ready to jump out of it and fight if he had to.
“Relax, Josiah, it is me,” Francesca said. She stood up then and glided toward him in the darkness, heading straight for the table next to the bed. She poured a glass of water and handed it to him.
Josiah relaxed as soon as he heard Francesca’s voice, his visions of an evildoer gone as quickly as they had come. He took the glass and drank the water heartily.
“Slow down. There is plenty more where that came from,” Francesca said.
Josiah ignored her. He was parched beyond belief, and hungry, too. He han
ded the glass to her expectantly. After another glass full of water, he felt a little better, and focused on Francesca.
She was in her nightclothes and barefoot, though she was covered with a heavier shawl than she might have otherwise worn if she were alone, or with someone familiar. The room was comfortable, the air dry, but there was still a hint of the previous day’s heat held inside it.
“How long have you been here?” Josiah asked. He was glad she had covered herself appropriately.
“Not long. Juan Carlos watched over you for quite a while. He was very tired from his journey before he arrived here, and I had to argue with him to leave your side.”
Josiah nodded. “He is a good friend.”
“You have fought together more than once?”
“Yes.”
“This battle nearly killed you, Josiah Wolfe.”
“I know, I can feel it.”
“But you are better?”
Josiah nodded.
“I feared the fever would take you, that we were too late.” Francesca hesitated like she wanted to say something else, but she restrained herself. She just stood there, her features barely visible. Still, he could see her silhouette, and feel the softness of compassion in her voice. “You were calling out. Do you remember that?”
Josiah shook his head no. “The last thing I remember is the branding iron burning into my skin, the awful smell of death. I have smelled men burning before. I thought it was my time to die. Who was I calling for?”
“A woman,” Francesca said, moving away from the bed, standing next to the window so now he could barely see her at all.
Any hope of seeing her face disappeared. Her motivations and expressions were cloaked by the darkness. Once more, night was the enemy.
Josiah expected to hear Francesca say he had screamed out “Lily” or “Pearl,” but she said neither name.
The Gila Wars Page 7