The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Josiah could tell that words bubbled on Scrap’s tongue, but he held them back, kicked the ground, turned, and walked away without saying anything else.

  Josiah watched Scrap stalk off and heard Pip chuckle at the same time.

  “That boy sure is a firecracker,” Pip said.

  “He’s my friend.” Josiah spun Clipper around so he was facing the same direction as Pip’s mare. The Appaloosa groaned as Josiah fought to stop him from getting too close. Clipper’s nostrils were flared, and every muscle in the horse’s body was hard and tense.

  “Never said he wasn’t,” Pip said. He looked at Clipper, annoyed and disturbed, but said nothing else. Like Scrap, he just moved forward, out of the motte and into the bright, hot sun.

  Josiah had no choice but to follow him.

  CHAPTER 26

  The land was flat, a clear, uncompromised vista for as far as the eye could see. The sea shimmered on the horizon, but if a man didn’t know it was there, he’d just think he was staring at more flat land; a distant oasis lacking trees or promise.

  The area surrounding the Laguna Madre offered no shadows, shade, or protection from the blazing sun overhead. A smattering of mesquite trees that had somehow managed to survive the unrelenting sun and chaotic weather normal to seasides and floodplains were all stubby and short. Any green leaves within reach of a mule deer’s pull had been stripped away as soon as they’d appeared, leaving the gangly trees mostly barren. Sometimes, in the night, the trees looked like skeletons, standing sentinel over a land roamed by hungry and aimless creatures just trying to survive.

  Adding to the flatness of the floodplain was the offering of tall grasses. The long, sharp blades were already starting to brown from the summer heat and the surprising lack of rain in the spring. There were still streaks of green at the base of the grass, trailing to the root. Sustenance could still be found by a knowledgeable creature with a strong enough cud and the will to search it out. But beyond the grass, and on the well-worn trail, the ground was crusted white with salt and brine. Clouds of flies rose into the air at each step the horses took. The horses swished their tails furiously, but to no avail. The flies were as hungry and as relentless as the scorching sun.

  Josiah had his collar turned up, his long sleeves pulled to his wrists, and his bandana up to his nose, covering his mouth and half of his face like an outlaw. He could have been shrouded in rain gear, too, and that wouldn’t have stopped the flies and no-see-ums from penetrating his clothes. Some of them bit, and thanks to the intensity of the heat, he itched from the inside out. It did no good to swat away the insects. That just seemed to encourage them to band together and attack even more furiously.

  Five feet separated Josiah from Pip. It was the most comfortable distance for Josiah to control Clipper around Pip’s mare. He didn’t know the horse’s name. Pip had never called it anything other than “girl” or “horse,” with some affection but never with definition. It was entirely possible that the horse didn’t have a name. Some fellas were like that—refused to name their mounts. They were neither pets nor friends to them. Pip Howerson struck Josiah as one of those fellas. He kept mostly to himself—except, of course, when it was time to run a race and fill his pockets with money.

  “Seems like an odd place to bring three hundred head of cattle,” Josiah said. He didn’t whisper, but he was aware that his voice would carry farther and faster in the open.

  “Why’s that?” Pip’s mouse-like nose twitched. The only thing missing from the man’s rodent-like face was a pair of whiskers and teeth sharp enough to chew through wood, Josiah thought, but didn’t say.

  “No place to hide them.”

  “Plenty of grass for ’em to feed on.”

  “True enough.”

  “You ever punch a drive?” Pip asked.

  They walked the horses at an easy gait, not in a hurry, and not too concerned about being spotted. No one would know they were Rangers from a distance—or up close for that matter. They’d most likely be mistaken for a pair of bank robbers instead of lawmen. One of the advantages of not having to wear a uniform or badge was the withholding of any identification at all.

  “Not for a living,” Josiah said. “Not now, not ever I hope.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Josiah drew a deep breath and eyed the horizon. He thought he saw an odd movement in the grass about fifty yards ahead of them. Reeds crossing over the opposite direction against the breeze. “I tagged along on one for a few days some time ago, rode drag. Turns out Clipper wasn’t much of a cut horse, and I wasn’t much of a cowboy.”

  “Well, hell, that horse ain’t built for chasin’ after stray cows. I ain’t bein’ mean or nothing, just telling you what I see.”

  “I know. It takes a horse accustomed to the demand. He’s a good one for distance, just not at the run.” Josiah gently tapped Clipper’s neck with his open hand. The flies took offense to the motion, or were drawn to it, one or the other. They swarmed at Josiah’s hand, convincing him to dig into his pack for a pair of gloves.

  “Those Appaloosas are some fine, healthy horses on a drive. This little girl was a green-broke horse booted off a drive for too much spirit. I happened onto her for a few dollars. Damn fools didn’t know a treasure when they saw it. I wrangled a remuda for a while myself, but that life wasn’t for me.”

  “We had a cow when I was a kid, but I don’t know anything about herds of cattle.”

  “Why was you taggin’ along?”

  “Just trying to blend in.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You was doin’ some spy work for the captain. Lord come Nelly, I sure hope like hell he don’t tap me for that kind of thing. I can scout with the best of ’em, but actin’ like I’m supposed to be somebody else, oh no, that’s not for me.”

  “It’s not my favorite duty, either. But duty it was, so I went along with it.”

  After Josiah had killed Captain Feders in self-defense some months back, he was sent to Corpus Christi as a spy to gather information about Cortina’s rustling operation. Unbeknownst to Josiah, Cortina had plans to invade and take Corpus Christi as his own. It wasn’t the first time in the Mexican’s history that he had tried such a thing. After the initial battle, Josiah had found himself in a situation where he needed cover to meet up with Captain Leander McNelly and his company of Rangers coming to Corpus to root out Cortina. The cattle drive was a perfect place to blend in—until a stampede was started with intention, and Josiah was sent after the instigator.

  “There’s some fellas who say you’re lucky to be alive, Wolfe,” Pip said.

  Josiah ignored the comment and slowed Clipper to a stop. He thought he saw the grass in the distance move again.

  He knew it could be anything. A big cat, a coyote, or a fox, hunting its way along some invisible trail. Or it could be a scout for Cortina, on the lookout for Rangers.

  “What is it?” Pip asked.

  “Not sure,” Josiah answered, easing his Peacemaker out of the holster.

  A quick glance around told him that they were more out in the open than he’d realized, and their only cover was the knee-high grass itself. There were no trees worthy of hiding behind, or rocks, or boulders of any size within sight that could offer them protection.

  The bad part of this kind of country was that they were exposed to all of the elements, with no place to run if it came to that. The good part was hard to find.

  Heat rose up from the ground, offering a putrid, rotting smell, not welcoming at all; the stench got worse the farther into the plain they traveled, not better. And the flies remained unbearable, as much for the men as the horses. Josiah was glad he was outfitted to endure the insects.

  He felt tension rising up the back of his neck, an instinct, honed in war and in the years riding on the right side of the law, that something was amiss. They were vulnerable. Too vulnerable.

 
Josiah slid off the saddle and chambered a cartridge in his Peacemaker.

  Pip remained on his horse, stopped next to Clipper, and had opened his mouth to say something when the first gunshot echoed from the horizon.

  But even closer, right behind him, Josiah heard a thump, thump—two bullets striking flesh. He knew the sound just as well as he knew his own voice. Horrified, he turned and saw what had been the unseen shooter’s target.

  Pip Howerson’s chestnut mare whinnied and screamed, then stumbled sideways. Blood exploded out of the mare’s muscular neck, just below the reins. Pip tried to wrestle the horse away, but she was staggering in the opposite direction. Without any choice, Pip jumped from the saddle just as the horse collapsed to the ground with a gasp, moan, and relaxation of its anal muscles. The bullets had only missed Pip by inches.

  Josiah slapped Clipper as hard as he could on the rump and yelled, “Run!” then dove to the hard ground, disappearing into a black cloud of flies, his nose instantly buried in the smell of death.

  CHAPTER 27

  Another round of gunfire crackled in the distance—soft thunder that barely had any energy at all. Josiah was certain the gunfire was from a pistol, not a rifle.

  It was hard to tell if they’d stumbled on another scout, or if they’d managed to ride straight into Cortina’s men, set on delivering the herd of cattle. If so, it was sixteen against two. Not good odds in any circumstance. Even worse when a horse had been lost. There would be no quick escape, no fast run back to the camp. Returning alive would be difficult at best, and impossible if they were as outnumbered as Josiah thought they were. Cortina would not take kindly to prisoners, if it came to that, like Captain McNelly had.

  Pip crawled to his mare and hugged her bloody neck.

  A murky, forked river of blood oozed out from the horse’s body. The flies celebrated their remarkable stroke of luck, of being in the right place at the right time, and made their way to the red feast in swarms. The mare’s smooth chestnut hair looked black, black as the horse’s terrified eyes as she struggled with all of her might to stand and flee. Her heart would not allow such a thing; weakness had set in—death was near, but not near enough. The shots would have been more humane if they had struck the horse in the heart and killed her outright. As it was, she foamed at the mouth, gasped for air, all the while fighting to run one last time.

  Shock had worn off of Pip’s mousy face. His cheeks were twisted in fear and anguish. His eyes were as dark as the horse’s, and his entire face was as white as the salty ground they lay on.

  The grass gave them cover, but the shooter knew where they had fallen and was methodically firing into it. A gunshot exploded about every ten seconds. Bullets ripped across the top of the grass, thumping into the ground five or six feet away from where the horse struggled to live, as Josiah and Pip watched in horror.

  Their own luck wouldn’t last long, Josiah was certain of it. He had no idea if Clipper had made his way to safety, or if the Appaloosa lay dying, like the mare, close by—only alone.

  The ambush had come amazingly quick, and though they shouldn’t have been surprised by it, it was obvious that they had been. One minute all was right with the world, they were riding along talking, and the next they were lying in a growing pool of blood, trapped with no way out.

  Pip stared at Josiah, then rolled to his side and looked up to the sky, then back to the dying horse just as quickly. He had pulled his gun from the holster, a long-barreled Colt Dragoon and, without hesitation, settled the cold metal barrel behind the mare’s ear and pulled the trigger.

  For a moment, all Josiah could see was the bright orange flash. He was immediately deafened by the shot. Blood splattered across his face; a warm, unwelcome salve on the scabs left behind by Francesca’s scattergun.

  The putrid, rotting smell of the ground mixed with the metallic blood and the gunpowder. If Josiah closed his eyes and blinked, the smell reminded him of Chickamauga, one of the bloodiest battles he’d fought in. Josiah knew full well that he had been lucky to survive that day, and he’d be even luckier, it seemed, if he lived through this one. It was a different war, but the stakes were the same at the end of the day. Victors walked away with their lives and memories. The defeated were left behind to rot and feed the ground and the flies.

  The mare quivered and shook, then exhaled one last time. Her suffering was over, her fear removed, given way to darkness and, hopefully, peace of some kind. If an animal could know such a thing.

  Pip’s face was covered with blood and sweat. Streaks of moisture trailed down from his sad eyes, like rivers cutting a canyon through the mud. It was hard to say if what Josiah saw was tears or not. It could have been. Regardless, Pip had done the right thing and ended the mare’s life as quickly and as painlessly as he could.

  Another bullet whizzed overhead just as all of Josiah’s senses started to return. He knew he had to do something. They were nothing more than sitting ducks if they stayed where they were. “We have to move,” he whispered with as much force and authority as he could muster.

  Pip Howerson glared at Josiah. It took him almost a full minute to respond. “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Away. You go to the right. I’ll go to the left. Looks like the shooter is about fifty yards north of us. Retreat back as far as you can. Stay off the trail. We’ll meet back up. I’m hoping my horse is still alive and can see us back to camp.”

  “We need to find Cortina.”

  “I think they may have just found us. You let me worry about McNelly if it comes to that. Two dead men won’t have much to say otherwise.”

  Pip said nothing. He was lying prone on the ground, propped up on his elbows, his chin resting just above the mare’s forehead. “Fastest damn horse I ever rode, Wolfe. If she had wings, we coulda flied around the world. I knew she was special the first time I spied her.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. We’ll come back for her.”

  Pip took a deep breath, nuzzled his forehead against the horse’s head, and then crawled around to the saddlebag and scabbard. He loaded up with as much ammunition as he could carry, grabbed his Spencer rifle, and made his way through the grass as gently, and as quietly, as he could without looking back.

  Josiah watched Pip disappear, pulled his hat off, and peered up over the grass as cautiously as possible.

  The sun was bright, and the heat of the day had continued to intensify. He could see clearly for a good ways. There was nothing to see—just a sea of grass, standing erect, not moving at all. What breeze there’d been had died. It was like the whole world had stopped just to see what was going to happen next.

  If there was a herd of cattle in the distance, then they were well hid in some unseen and unknown valley. There wasn’t the slightest hint, sound, or smell that suggested they’d run up on the rustled herd or Cortina’s army of bandits. Just the opposite. It looked to Josiah that they’d stumbled onto another scout, one man, not an army.

  Just as he was about to slide back down to the ground, the shooter popped up and fired off another shot.

  He was too far away to make out any features, whether the man was Mexican or Anglo, friend or foe. There was no use trying to negotiate with a man who’d already opened fire on them. Josiah had two choices: he could ignore the shot or return fire, exposing his own position, letting the shooter know with more certainty that he had not moved.

  He chose to return fire. Only he didn’t restrain himself. His Winchester rifle was still on Clipper’s back, so the only other weapon he had left besides his Peacemaker was an eight-inch Bowie knife attached to his fully complimented gun belt. He’d need that if he came face-to-face with the man.

  The gun smoke hung over him like a heavy gray cloud in the unmoving, thick air.

  Josiah dropped back to the ground and crawled away from the dead horse as quickly as he could, trying his best not to rattle the grasses, showing his path. But tha
t was impossible, and he knew it.

  CHAPTER 28

  Josiah was surrounded by tall grass and silence. For a brief moment, he had no idea what direction he was heading, or which way he ought to go.

  Meeting up with Pip, at some point, was the ultimate goal, but the thought of running away from the shooter, hoping to survive by hugging the ground and hiding, rubbed Josiah the wrong way.

  Running or hiding had never won him a fight, and this fight wasn’t one he could afford to lose. He was weak enough the way it was, hobbled to a degree by the wound he’d taken in Arroyo. The cauterization had surely stopped the spread of infection, but it had slowed him down. Good thing for Josiah that he’d been in prime health beforehand. He’d still have been bedridden otherwise.

  He pushed away the thought of Francesca as soon as it showed itself. She was the last thing he needed to be thinking about at the moment. But the thought had stopped him long enough for him to notice a game trail heading in the direction of the shooter. It was thin, but well-worn. There were fresh weasel tracks in the salt. He hoped he could ease along the trail without disturbing the grass too much, without alerting the shooter to his exact location.

  With a deep breath, and his Peacemaker in hand, Josiah started to crawl slowly through the grass on his elbows, weaving around thick stands of the sharp blades when he could. Ignoring the flies was difficult, but he had gotten used to them. He’d wiped as much of the horse’s blood off his exposed skin as possible, but the flies still favored him. Mosquitoes, too, had joined in the attack. Ignoring the bites was difficult, but he had no choice but to endure the hungry insects and move on.

  The sun continued to beam brightly overhead, but down inside the grass was still full of shadows and unknown holes. His sense of direction was strong, but for all he knew, without anything to pinpoint his ultimate destination, Josiah could have been crawling in circles, making a fool of himself, or heading straight for unseen trouble.