The Gila Wars

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Josiah wasn’t sure if the man spoke, or understood, English. He assumed he didn’t. Speaking Mexican was uncommon for Josiah, and it felt odd rolling off his tongue. He hoped the man didn’t think he was fluent in the language, but if that were the case, Juan Carlos could step in. That was one of the reasons Josiah had the Mexican come along with him instead of ordering him to stay with Scrap.

  “Sí, I understand,” the man said. He climbed down from the bow of the steamer gingerly, since the hull was still rocking, still being pushed forward by the unrelenting force of the waves. As soon as his boots hit the ground, the man pasted his hands to the back of his head. “Please don’t shoot, I am only a lowly deckhand. I am no thief or outlaw. I know nothing of these troubles I have found myself in. I just signed up for the journey to serve on the boat.”

  Josiah was relieved the man spoke the Anglo tongue as well as he did.

  “No se acueste,” Juan Carlos said to the man. His voice and eyes were steel-hard and direct as an executioner’s.

  Josiah had no clue what Juan Carlos said, but he offered the same attitude, the same glare. The man was a fool not to take either of them seriously.

  “Do not lie,” Juan Carlos interpreted, glancing quickly at Josiah with a nod. “You are a dead man if you do. No habrá redención.”

  Not knowing the language was a weakness for Josiah. Especially when he was home, in the midst of Lyle and Ophelia.

  Ophelia was teaching Lyle the language, and at the age of four, the boy could hold a conversation in Mexican in a way Josiah could not. There was no use protesting the idea. Josiah saw the advantages that Lyle would have over him as an adult. The world was changing. Honest contact with Mexicans, regardless of the current situation, was becoming more frequent. Prejudice still existed. Josiah imagined it always would, even as far as he was concerned to a degree, but life would be a lot different in the future for his son than it was for him. He pushed away the thought of Lyle as quickly as it came into his mind. There was no place for regret on the battlefield.

  The deckhand glared at Juan Carlos. “Lying would be a foolish thing to do with so many guns pointed at me, wouldn’t it, amigo? And my redemption is none of your concern. Just because you have a gun on me does not mean you own me, or my soul. Our Father blesses me.”

  “As you wish, mi amigo,” Juan Carlos said.

  Josiah shifted his weight in the saddle a little nervously. “Friends don’t normally point guns at each other.”

  Juan Carlos backed his horse away from the crashing waves so there was no water touching its hooves, and it settled down immediately, allowing him to steady the Open Top Colt. “Are you the last man on board?”

  “Sí, the captain is dead. Killed in the volley of gunshots. We were a short crew. There were to be vaqueros along for the return once the vacas were loaded and we were on the way back to Cuba.”

  A smile winced across Josiah’s face and disappeared as suddenly as it appeared. “That’ll make Scrap happy.”

  “How do I know that you are telling me the truth?” Juan Carlos asked. “How do I know that there are not more men hiding in the captain’s quarters?”

  “You don’t. You must trust what I say, or you can kill me, it is up to you. I prefer to live, as I am sure you do, too.”

  “I do not wish to see another dead man on this day,” Juan Carlos said. “Enough men have lost their lives for Cortina and his simple codicia.”

  The deckhand held a steady gaze, glaring at Juan Carlos. “There is more than greed to every war. There is power and influence. Cortina wishes to create a legend for his own reflection to live in. Every general is the same, no matter the country.”

  Juan Carlos nodded, the look in his eyes stern. Every wrinkle on his face seemed to be as creased as a starched shirtsleeve. “I’m in no need of your wisdom or opinions.”

  “Then you will have to trust me,” the deckhand said. “Allow me to live. I mean no one any harm. I just wish to return home to my mujer and my niños.”

  Juan Carlos exhaled deeply. “I cannot promise you that will happen anytime soon. Your fate will be in Captain McNelly’s hands. You are his prisoner now. Not ours.”

  “A prisoner of Tejas?”

  “Sí, a prisoner of the Texas Rangers.”

  “Then I am a dead man.” The deckhand genuflected, made a cross on his chest, from his head to his sternum with blazing speed.

  “Not if you do as you are told,” Juan Carlos said.

  Satisfied, Josiah loosened the reins in his hand and backed Clipper up about five feet so that he and Juan Carlos’s horse were nose to nose. “Come on then. We best get started. It’s a long walk to the camp.”

  Juan Carlos put his hand out to the right, stopping Josiah. He shook his head. “I do not trust this hombre.”

  It was nearly a whisper, but serious enough for Josiah to abide by the implication. He lowered his hand and looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure that Scrap was still in place, still had the deckhand in his sights. The boy hadn’t moved. Scrap looked like a statue standing on the hill, the sun shining on him like he was in the middle of a spotlight. The only shadows on the ground came from the returning vultures, floating over the bodies left from the fight, with the smell of death and opportunity surely swirling in their nostrils like intoxicating nectar.

  Before Josiah could issue an order, Juan Carlos slipped off his horse. “You make one false move, amigo, and I will blow your head off.” He had the Open Top pointed directly at the deckhand’s forehead.

  The man did not react. Just stood solemnly with his hands to his sides.

  Josiah had the man squarely in the sight of his Winchester, too. The only sounds he could hear above his beating heart were the crashing of the waves and the agitation and crunch of the sand against the bottom of Juan Carlos’s shoes as he walked slowly to the man.

  The old Mexican’s intent was to search the deckhand’s body for a hidden weapon of any kind.

  There was hardly ever a need to command a man like Juan Carlos. His instincts were as sharp and alert as any solider’s Josiah had ever known, no matter his age or implication of physical weakness.

  Juan Carlos had ridden with the Rangers as long as any man Josiah knew of, in all of their various forms through their history, never serving in an open or equal capacity, but serving nonetheless. It was when his half brother, Captain Hiram Fikes, was still alive that Juan Carlos rode even more clearly next to the men who served the state of Texas in one capacity or another.

  To say Juan Carlos was well trained is an understatement. He was a natural fighter, a ghostlike spy, a man comfortable with the knowledge that war never ends; it is ongoing no matter what it is called, from one battle to the next, raging through some years stronger than others, for the cause of new borders, liberty, freedom . . . or simple greed.

  Juan Carlos stopped directly in front of the deckhand.

  A sudden series of gunshots erupted in the distance. Ping, ping, ping. Not thunder. Not lightning. Just three shots, come and gone. Loud enough, close enough, though out of sight, to distract Juan Carlos for more than a long second.

  But the long second of distraction was all the deckhand needed.

  In one swift motion, he pulled out a hidden Bowie knife from inside the waist of his trousers and thrust it with lightning speed directly into Juan Carlos’s chest.

  CHAPTER 36

  Juan Carlos grimaced, pushing away a look of surprise as the deckhand yanked the knife out of his chest.

  Josiah’s eyes blurred. The world went quiet for a breath. His finger trembled against the warm metal trigger, but compression came naturally, a reflex out of shock and other emotions that would not be revealed until later—if ever. He was reacting now without concern for what was right or wrong. Survival mattered, nothing else. If there were any implications to his actions, or mistakes to grieve over, then that would have to
come later. All that mattered now was pulling the trigger—and making sure the deckhand was deader than dead, unable to hurt anyone ever again.

  A crack came from behind Josiah. An expected snap of thunder, followed by another gunshot, and then another and another.

  As Juan Carlos fell to the ground, knees first, the first bullet tore into the deckhand’s face. It was hard to tell which reached him first, Josiah’s or Scrap’s shot. It didn’t matter. The right half of the man’s face exploded instantly. There was no reading his expression, no need to. Surely, he had expected to meet his death. Escaping was out of the question, out of the realm of possibility. Whether he was surprised or not would never be known. It was a desperate move, stabbing Juan Carlos. There was no way out, no way to survive. That wasn’t the plan. It couldn’t have been.

  Josiah couldn’t resist his rage as he saw Juan Carlos fall facedown into the sand—he fanned the Peacemaker, cocking it with his palm as quick as he could pull the trigger, never missing his target, never looking away from the pain and destruction he was inflicting. It was an action he rarely allowed himself to perform. Fanning was showy, immature, not worthy of a Ranger or a man of shooting stature. But righteousness and maturity were lost in the moment. He could not comprehend what he was seeing. Juan Carlos had been shot before and survived, but it had weakened him, hobbled him in a noticeable way. Being stabbed with such precision would, most likely, be fatal.

  Scrap kept shooting, too, emptying every cartridge the Spencer could hold, blasting away at the deckhand. His head first. Then his chest. Then his gut. There wasn’t a bit of exposed skin left on the man that wasn’t covered in blood. His clothes, too, were soaked red. He looked like a papist cardinal, minus the grace, following an avenue into heaven—if such a place existed.

  The spray of blood looked like someone was throwing paint into the ocean. The constant shots were raining sinew, muscle, and shattered bone directly into the water.

  A school of starving bait fish relished their good fortune and exposed themselves, some of them squiggling along the shore, driving themselves into a frenzy, nearly pushing out of the water, to gobble at the bounty as it fell from the sky.

  The deckhand collapsed in a bloody mess about five feet back from Juan Carlos. The knife slid out of his hand and lodged directly into the ground, the hilt sticking up like Excalibur, waiting to be discovered by its true owner. He was dead before he hit the ground, before he knew what hit him or had the chance to recant, change his mind, and give himself over as a prisoner to the Texas Rangers.

  The air smelled of revenge and decay, riled by a rising wind, and an out-of-control steamer that was being pushed and pulled by the current.

  Smoke vanished, and the reports of the Rangers’ gunshots echoed away, riding the wind like a bad omen that had come true.

  The boat groaned and creaked, offering notice to Josiah that it still existed, that there very well might be more armed men stowed away, waiting for a moment of surprise of their own, attempting to save themselves and redeem anything they could out of the mission set on them by Juan Cortina.

  Josiah blinked and saw that Juan Carlos was not moving. There was no desperate heave of his chest, no sound of life or motion at all. He lay on the beach, facedown in the sand, blood draining out of him, surrounding him in a pool, leaving his body limp, like a sinking island in an unknown sea.

  A rushing noise caused Josiah to look away, to glance over his shoulder and see that Scrap was heading in his direction, leaving his post on the ridge. The boy still held the Spencer, ready to shoot at anything that moved.

  Scrap’s presence gave Josiah a moment of confidence, a moment of clarity. He was no doctor, but he had battlefield skills. If Juan Carlos could be saved, if he was not dead already, then it would come from Josiah’s hands—but first, he had to make sure that he himself would survive the moment to help.

  To save Juan Carlos, he had to save himself.

  Josiah jumped down off Clipper and scanned the ground quickly. It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for: several small, fist-sized rocks. He grabbed up a couple, realizing that every second counted, his attention flitting to the deck of the steamer every few seconds, looking for any sign of movement or unnatural shadow.

  Scrap and Missy approached quickly.

  The boy stopped a few yards from Josiah, jumped off his horse, and ran straight for Juan Carlos. “Wolfe, what the hell are you doing?” he shouted, as he leaned down to the Mexican, checking for a pulse.

  Josiah ignored Scrap. He hurried back to Clipper and tore open his saddlebag. The horse stood still, ignoring the steamer and anything that was going on around it.

  It only took a second for Josiah to find what he was looking for. A small bottle with coal oil in it and several matches bound together with a small bit of twine.

  “He’s still alive, Wolfe,” Scrap yelled out.

  “Try and stop the bleeding,” Josiah answered back.

  “Don’t know if I can. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Never you mind. Just tend to Juan Carlos the best you can and keep an eye on that steamer. I don’t believe a word that man said. Could be more men on it, just waiting their turn at us.”

  Scrap nodded, and Josiah turned back to the task at hand.

  What he had planned was a long shot, but it was all he could think to do, other than sending Scrap alone onto the steamer to face whatever might wait there. He wasn’t doing that. He’d already lost Juan Carlos, seen him injured at the very least, killed at the very worst, with the decisions he’d already made.

  Seconds seemed like hours as Josiah rummaged through his saddlebag. Finally, he found what he was looking for—three soiled bandanas. He quickly wrapped one around a rock, knotted it, doused it with coal oil, lit it on fire, and flung it as hard as he could onto the deck of the steamer.

  He did the same thing with the other two rags, only he was more cautious with his toss. The first one shattered through what remained of the glass in the captain’s tower, and the other landed next to the starboard-side smokestack.

  The air smelled of coal oil and smoke, and all Josiah could do was hope that the fire would catch, ending any speculation at all whether there were still any men left on board the boat.

  CHAPTER 37

  Scrap had rolled Juan Carlos onto his back and was putting pressure on the knife wound. The flow of blood looked to have slowed, but there was a healthy red puddle growing underneath the old Mexican. Scrap’s hands were soaked with blood, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. The look on his face was grim, ashen. He seemed genuinely concerned about Juan Carlos even though they’d had their fair share of differences in the past, and Scrap wasn’t too fond of any Mexican—especially, at times, Juan Carlos.

  Juan Carlos was staring straight up at the cloudless sky. He turned and focused his eyes on Josiah as he leaned down next to him. “I was foolish, señor. I could feel it in my bones not to trust him, that he was a threat to our safety. Now I have paid the price of my arrogance and ignorance. I thought we had won the day.”

  “Let me have a look,” Josiah said. He made eye contact with Scrap. The boy’s face remained expressionless as he tried to shake his head no as subtly as he could.

  “No, there will be no need,” Juan Carlos choked to say. “The wound is deep, and I have not fully recovered from the gunshot I took on our adventure to Durango. We tried to stop Cortina then as now. The results are the same. I have learned my lesson.”

  “We have to get some help for you,” Josiah demanded. “I’m not going to just stand here and do nothing.”

  “There is no time, señor.” The words were almost a whisper and came with a gasp at the end. “Moving me would be too painful. I can feel the weakness rising up from deep inside. If I move, I will only bleed more. You have seen this before, in the time of the war. You know what I say is the truth.”

  “Yo
u will die here.” Josiah sighed, resigned to the surety of what his eyes saw. Battlefield memories flittered in the periphery of his mind like bats swarming in the graying of night.

  “Sí, death is just waiting its turn at victory. I do not fear it. I have tricked it many times, but just as I felt the man’s lie, I feel the truth of my impending death now. It will wait for me no longer. I am out of luck and favor.”

  Josiah exhaled deeply and lowered his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry about. I have had a long, happy life. What more can a man ask?”

  “You do not deserve this. I could have prevented this.”

  “I believe in very few things, señor, but I believe in fate. I have never been one to acknowledge a God or the presence of another life after this one. The mission bells did not draw me in but sent me running from their condemnation and judgment. Perhaps, I should have listened to the padres when I was young, but I was stubborn as a buey. Like you, unmoving like an ox. But it would have made this time easier, I think, believing in something other than the darkness that surely awaits me.”

  Josiah looked away. “I have no words of comfort for you.”

  Scrap cleared his throat but offered nothing.

  “I know,” Juan Carlos said.

  “You deserve better.” Josiah couldn’t let go of the idea that the entire incident was his fault.

  “Deserve? How many men have lived the life I have and how many have lived only half the time? I am mucha suerte. Very lucky, Señor Josiah, to have lived the life I have lived.” Juan Carlos coughed painfully and turned his head so that he was looking away from Josiah, down the beach, into the distance. “When I was young, all I wanted to be was a fisherman. A simple fisherman like my tío, my uncle. He wasn’t really my uncle, just a man that my mother kept in her house. He was a good man. I called him Luca, and longed for him to be my real papá, but he was not, could not be. My father was Anglo, and it was difficult for him to see me, so he did not ever come around. I only knew his eyes. The ones that looked back at me in the mirror, and my mother’s that bore nothing but bitterness at her choice whenever she looked at me on sad days. It was Luca who taught me how to catch my bait with a net, like I showed you. He taught me the most important things that I would ever need to know. Like when to run, when to stand your ground, and when the end is the end—like now.”