Scrap mounted Missy, the blue roan mare, after securing Garcia on an unknown horse, a shaggy gelding, the color of the muddy road, that Josiah had never seen before. Garcia’s hands were bound, the long rope stretched out and tied to the horn of Scrap’s saddle.
Josiah and Clipper waited behind Garcia, glad to let Scrap have the lead. At the moment, the farther away Scrap was, the more comfortable Josiah was.
The right side of Garcia’s face was swollen from where Scrap had punched him. A mottled bruise, like a thicket of raspberries, protruded under and around his eye. He said nothing, avoided looking at Josiah, too, like he was as evil a man as he thought Scrap to be. What Garcia didn’t know, couldn’t know, was that Josiah had saved him from a harder beating. Scrap’s anger was on a hair trigger, had been since they’d left Austin, and his attitude was getting worse, not better.
Josiah rounded his shoulders and straightened his back, settling in for the ride. There was an odd feeling in the air. Disappointment. Regret. Fear. He knew deep in his heart that it was best that they leave. He had only known Francesca a brief time, but she was mysterious, and a salve to another wound he carried, one that only she knew about, one that had been inflicted by Pearl, whether Josiah wanted to admit it or not.
Scrap clicked his tongue loudly, the sound echoing off the cantina’s walls, then began to move forward, pulling Garcia, and his horse, along with him.
Josiah hesitated, held back, then flipped the reins and allowed Clipper to move forward. He questioned leaving so quickly and circled around, stopping in front of Francesca and Adolfo, facing them directly. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll always believe that you saved my life.”
He was staring directly into Francesca’s surprised brown eyes. She nodded and leaned heavily against her father. “I will never see you again, will I?”
Josiah dropped his head. “I don’t know. I’ll do my best to come back this way.”
“But you cannot promise me that you will return?” Francesca demanded.
“I can’t. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’m a Ranger. I don’t have control of where I go. The only way I can know what comes next in my life is if I quit the company, and if I did that, I would live in Austin, with my son. He is the place of my heart, my home.”
“You’ll have a scar from your time here.”
“More than one, I think.”
Francesca started to say something else, but restrained herself—at least her tongue. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she fled quickly inside the cantina, taking her disappointment with her.
“You must forgive my Francesca,” Adolfo said. “She pines for the moon and believes in true love. Saying good-bye has never been easy for her. Not even as a girl. Loss is unbearable, but you would know that. She is young in ways of the heart and lonely in her daily chores. Your presence, and injury, took her away from that, gave her something to tend to, to attach to. She will be fine in a day or two, after you’ve gone. She will heal just as you are. I will see to it.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .” Josiah stopped and looked over his shoulder. Scrap and Garcia were completely out of Arroyo, almost on the horizon. He sighed. “I’ll return if I can,” he said. “She deserves better than to be left behind, but I have no choice. I have my duty to attend to. A life in Austin that I should have thought more of. I failed to think ahead,” Josiah said, his voice dropping off softly with regret.
“You are always welcome here, Josiah Wolfe. Remember that.” Adolfo nodded toward the horizon. “You better go. I worry about the safety of your charge without your eyes on him.”
“I will remember that, and thank you again. I am in your debt.” With that, Josiah turned, nudged Clipper gently with his heel, and hurried to catch up with Scrap, pushing down the road with as much speed and restrained heart as he could muster.
For a brief moment, he thought he heard a woman wailing in pain, but he quickly decided that it was only the wind whistling behind him, pushing past him, around him, urging him to move on before he turned back again.
CHAPTER 19
There were no clouds in the black sky, and a fingernail moon rose slowly in the distance, like it was being cranked upward by a weak bit of rope. Silence surrounded Josiah. Any animals who had made their living during the day had found places to rest, unlike the two men he now trailed after.
Traveling at night offered many threats. It was slower, and it was easier to get lost. Stumbling into, or upon, a camp of Apache or Cortina’s desperadoes was always a possibility. Both had watches of their own. Or they were out, too, in the land, straying from camp, or on a devious mission, rustling cattle or worse.
If a horse stepped into a snake hole, it could be catastrophic. Clipper sustaining an injury traveling at night was not something Josiah wanted to think about. The Appaloosa was like a member of the family to him, the closest thing to a pet he would ever allow himself to possess.
And then there were the snakes themselves, roused from a deep sleep under their rocks, protecting themselves with a strike, no matter the distance or size of the interloper. There were other predators, too, like the big cats known to roam the area that could kill, or seriously maim, a man without warning.
The risk was more than apparent, but Josiah had allowed Scrap to keep the lead, to continue on traveling as the evening fell quickly into night. It was not a decision he was comfortable with, but they were too close to the Ranger camp to stop now.
The trail was clearly defined ahead of them, easy to see, even in the darkness—if they went slowly.
Stopping to make camp was really not an option. If Garcia had any valid information to be gleaned, then the clock was ticking. As it was, the man had offered nothing that Scrap and Josiah didn’t already know. Cortina was set on delivering a herd of rustled cattle to an awaiting steamer in the Gulf, but Garcia claimed he didn’t know when or where. At least that was his story. Just like Rafael Salinas’s when Robinson had captured him and brought him into camp. Josiah wondered if it wasn’t a ploy, a command given by Cortina about what to say if they were captured. They both were consistent, and Josiah thought their responses were too much alike for it to be coincidence.
Luckily, the land was relatively flat as they headed away from Arroyo. Josiah kept Clipper at a short, comfortable distance from the rear of Garcia’s shaggy mount, close enough to have a conversation with the Mexican if he wanted or needed to, but so far had chosen not to.
Boredom had started to set in, and Josiah decided to take another tack, try and get Garcia to talk more if he could. “You need to get your story in order, Garcia. Captain McNelly will grill you on arrival. You have to know that.” He edged up alongside the captive man’s horse. The horse smelled like it had rolled in wet cow shit then stood under the full sun to dry.
Scrap cast a nasty glance over his shoulder but held his tongue and turned his attention back to the trail.
“I already told you, Ranger, I was to serve under Camillo Lerma and la Aboja, the Needle. We were to steal the cows from La Parra.”
“Rafael Salinas told McNelly the same thing. You’ll need more than that to save your hide. McNelly is not a fair court jurist. He’s a judge and lawmaker, at least out here. Your life will be in his hands.”
The swelling in Garcia’s face had subsided a bit, but the raspberry bruise was still evident, even in the darkness. “I do not fear death.”
“You’re brave,” Josiah said.
“I will show you how brave I am once I am free.”
“You’ll not be free tonight. You’ll be hanged, or worse, if you keep it up. Dying doesn’t have to be this easy. Tell me what I want to know, and I swear I’ll do my best to see you set free, or at least see that you are cared for humanely.”
Garcia cocked his head toward Josiah. “You speak with confidence and sugar, señor, while your friend speaks with his fists. Why should I believe you? It
is a game you play, pitting me off of him, all the while pretending to be my amigo. You think I am estúpido?”
“You don’t have to believe me, but I’m the closest thing to a friend that you have right now. I’ve seen enough blood fall in my day for a hundred men. I have no quarrel with you or your like. It’s rough terrain here, difficult to make a living.”
“You know nothing of the land.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I am not your amigo.”
“You might want to rethink that.”
Garcia looked away then and refocused his attention on the back of Scrap’s neck, boring into it with hate and anger. His jaw was set hard, and a vein in his forehead pulsed.
The sky was fully black now, and with the moon at just a sliver, it was becoming more and more difficult to see more than five feet ahead of their horses’ heads, much less into Garcia’s eyes, to see what he was thinking or feeling. Scrap had slowed his pace even more but had given no indication that he was going to abandon the journey and set up a small camp of their own.
A coyote yipped in the distance, quickly followed by a bird sound, a low whine, and then a one-pitch note that sounded like a screech. Josiah knew the bird to be a screech owl, either out for a hunt or calling to its mate. Or maybe neither, if he considered the call more closely. It could’ve been the watch call, letting them know they were getting close to the perimeter of the Ranger camp. The calls changed nightly, depending on the boys assigned to the posts. It was difficult to know for sure whether he was hearing man or bird. He would find out soon enough. He was sure of it.
“You need to make up your mind, Garcia. We’re close.”
“I do not trust you. You killed two of my amigos. Cortina will want revenge.”
“I know all about Cortina and his ways, his revenge. Do you think this is the first time I am on his trail?”
“He hates the Rangers. He will hate you even more for killing his men.”
“In self-defense. There wasn’t time to talk them out of shooting.” Josiah hesitated. “I pulled Elliot off you, doesn’t that count for anything? If your welfare wasn’t important to me, I would’ve let him finish you right then and there. We would’ve buried you in Arroyo, or set you out for the buzzards to pick at. But that didn’t happen. You’re alive because I saved you.”
Garcia glanced over at Josiah, his hard gaze softening. “You are his sargento, no?”
“I am.”
“Salinas was to be mine.”
“He will be happy to see that you are still alive.”
“But a captive like him.”
“McNelly promised him freedom once this was over . . . if he helped.”
“I have no choice, do I?”
“What do you know?” Josiah nudged Clipper closer to Garcia and tried not to show his disgust at the smell of the horse.
“It is tomorrow. The steamer is expected in the bay tomorrow,” Garcia said, a sense of resignation in his voice.
CHAPTER 20
The first fires of camp showed on the hill—small orange beacons flickering in the distance, dotted haphazardly on the ground, more akin to a starry sky than the earth.
As Josiah had thought, the owl screech they’d heard earlier had been a watch call. They had encountered the first perimeter guard shortly thereafter and were granted immediate access to McNelly’s camp. There had begun to be some worry about their safety and return.
Wood smoke filled the air with its comforting, acrid smell. A guitar strummed softly, and a muffled voice attempted to sing a ballad of some kind. The unknown song rose up slowly into the night, offering a bit of entertainment to any human being within hearing distance, and fear or discomfort to any animal, four-legged or otherwise, far or near.
The wind carried the music like it did a bird’s collection of notes, without judgment or intention. It was good to hear, and calmed Josiah, allowed him to relax and give up the fear for his own safety. He still worried about Garcia’s safety though.
A few tents glowed white from the inside out, but they were dim, the lamp flames turned down low.
Darkness had engulfed the world, but Josiah was glad the slow ride back from Arroyo was over. He was tired and sore; his wounds agitated him. His shoulder hurt, and the scattershot scratches on his face continued to itch and burn. The salve Francesca had put on them had started to fade away, just like the vision he held of her. He could still smell her sweet scent, hear her voice whispering in his ear . . . but it was distant, almost like she had died, instead of been left behind.
Even though the camp was relaxed, sure of the guard mounted around the perimeter, their arrival garnered attention, curious and otherwise.
A growing stir could be heard in the camp, a wave of voices rising, spreading the news that Josiah and Scrap had returned with a prisoner in tow, another Mexican. The only disappointment was that it wasn’t Juan Cortina himself.
More logs were tossed on the fire, lighting the trail clearer, more thoroughly, leading directly to Captain McNelly’s tent. Fresh pots of coffee were set to brew, and a sizzle of meat tossed to the spit caught Josiah’s ear.
He was hungry, more than he’d like to admit. A bite or two of jerky had sustained him from Arroyo. He’d lost his appetite the second he’d recognized Scrap’s horse waiting outside the cantina.
The guitar faded away, and the singing stopped once they crested a rise in the hill and the trail descended fully into the camp.
Scrap sat stiffly in his saddle, his back straight, shoulders squared, and his proud, hairless, chin thrust forward. Josiah could only see the back of his head and body, but he knew the look that was on the boy’s face. He was sure Scrap was gloating, proud of himself and the injuries he’d inflicted on Garcia—not to mention the blood that had been drawn in the cantina.
Scrap had taken a liking to killing and inflicting pain, and the development more than worried Josiah. Not that Scrap had ever been reluctant on the trigger, he hadn’t, but in the past the boy had shown some restraint, some respect for human life. Ever since he’d walked out of the jail in Austin, though, he shot first and didn’t bother to ask questions.
The world might not have been at war like it was when Josiah was Scrap’s age, but there was a battle raging under the boy’s skin. One that Josiah recognized and knew, no matter what he said or did, wouldn’t end until it was time. That might happen soon, or never at all. It could go either way with Scrap, and that’s what made him so dangerous. He was carrying a load of dynamite, just waiting for it to explode.
Garcia, on the other hand, was demoralized.
His head was hung deep to his chest, and even his horse seemed to sense defeat, that they were on enemy ground with no possible escape to be had. Its head was dropped nearly nose to the ground, and the bushy tail had lost its sway.
The Mexican was going to have to speak up to save his neck, even though Josiah knew now when Cortina was planning on transferring the cattle to the steamer.
Regardless, Josiah was just glad to be back among the Rangers, home for a moment, if it could be called that, where everything was in its place, and his safety wasn’t a concern.
Scrap could have all the glory he wanted. Josiah just wanted a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.
It didn’t take long to reach McNelly’s tent. They followed the same path Robinson had, and ended up in nearly the same spot, with a crowd gathering around them, anxious to see and hear what had happened since they’d left.
Scrap stayed mounted on Missy for a moment longer than he should have, surveying the men around him, nodding to no one in particular. It looked like he was trolling for applause, aching for a return worthy of a conquering hero—but none was given. There were only coughs and shuffles. No hands against each other. No praise offered to the boy for doing nothing more than he was sent out to do.
Captain McNelly pushed through t
he flap of his tent, exiting with curiosity. He was followed closely by Lieutenant Clement Robinson.
The flap remained open for a long second, and it looked like they had been planning an attack. There were maps on a table, scattered with papers and brass distance-measuring devices. A full coffeepot simmered on the fire in front of the tent.
Scrap jumped off Missy and hurried back to Garcia. “Get down, greaser.” He grabbed the Mexican’s arm and pulled at it, but Josiah was there next to him in a flash.
“Let the poor man get down on his own,” Josiah commanded.
“He ain’t no man. He’s a prisoner.”
“No sense treating a man like an animal just because you were,” Josiah said. He could care less that McNelly stood watching them; he’d had enough of Scrap’s mistreatment of the Mexican.
Scrap jerked his head back like he’d been smacked. If they had been anywhere else, in private company instead of standing in the middle of a crowd, Josiah was certain that a fight would have ensued. As it was, Scrap held his tongue and glared in return.
“Let the man get down on his own,” Captain McNelly said. Robinson stood over his shoulder, promising a swift response if a scuffle of any kind broke out.
“Yes, sir,” Scrap said, standing back. “You heard the captain, greaser, get down here now.”
Josiah exhaled loudly and offered Garcia his hand. “Come on. You’ll not be hurt here.”
“That’s right,” McNelly said. “Untie the prisoner, Wolfe. Show him we mean what we say.”
“Todos ustedes son unos mentirosos,” Garcia said, as Josiah loosened the rope that had bound his hands.
“Do not think there are none in this camp who are fluent in your native tongue, sir,” Captain McNelly said. “Not all of us are liars, as your statement implies.”
Garcia scowled as he pulled his hands free and shook the circulation back into them. “I have no reason to trust any Anglo.”
The Gila Wars Page 11