The Badger's Revenge

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Now there was cause to be concerned about the past meeting the present.

  But the men that were captured and bound were Josiah’s charges, entrusted to him by Pete Feders. Duty would not be clouded by emotion, and Josiah swore silently that he would not let anything happen to his men.

  Josiah had hand-picked Red and Scrap for the mission to capture Indian rustlers, to gain more information from them, find out their sources.

  The situation Josiah now found himself in, being a captive instead of a captor, was not one he had even considered a possibility before leaving Austin on the short trip.

  Scrap pushed against the rope and struggled to escape when he saw Josiah being pulled out from the rock maze where they had taken refuge, but he could barely even breathe, much less struggle. The two Comanche didn’t even glance at their captives. Acknowledgment would have surely brought a certain and swift end to both men’s lives.

  Josiah felt a push of the rifle against the back of his head, warning him off any sudden, or stupid, movement.

  He acted like he didn’t notice the push, and glared at Scrap silently, ordering him to quiet down without saying a word. But Scrap didn’t respond—he needed forceful vocal orders to behave—he just struggled more valiantly, showing as much nerve as he could, bound like a wet pig about to be butchered, knowing full well his life was at stake, certain to cease in seconds, rather than years.

  Josiah was almost positive the Indians would slit the two fellow Rangers’ throats and leave them there for the coyotes, vultures, and flies.

  He was shocked it hadn’t happened at the outset of their attack, when the Rangers had first been captured. It was a well-thought-out plan that had been perfectly executed by the Comanche.

  Any man who thought the Comanche lacked intelligence had never been the mouse in one of their catlike games.

  The Comanche weren’t always so generous in sparing a life, which made something about the entire situation seem odd. There was a strange air about the Indians that didn’t feel quite right to Josiah. It was like something was turned on its side, and he was looking at everything before him all wrong, unclearly.

  Josiah just kept telling himself to stay vigilant, to watch and wait for that blink of an eye at the wrong turn by one of the Indians, so he could make a move to save himself and, more importantly, to save Scrap and Red.

  He knew, though, that if both men did die on that tree, he would spend the rest of his life knowing he had let them down. He would have lost all of the stakes that mattered in the cat-and-mouse game, and surely, his days as a Texas Ranger would come to a quick and unceremonious end. The deaths would be too much for him too bear. Josiah was certain he couldn’t live with himself, constantly blaming himself for two more senseless deaths.

  “Liam O’Reilly is not a friend of mine,” Josiah said to neither Comanche in particular, hoping to distract the two from Scrap’s efforts to free himself.

  The mention of Liam O’Reilly sent a chill rumbling up and down his spine.

  Josiah had always suspected that O’Reilly had headed up Charlie Langdon’s gang once Charlie had dangled lifelessly from the hangman’s noose, and he’d suspected, too, since crossing paths with O’Reilly in Waco during the previous summer, that there was a score to settle, a grudge to be revealed at the point of a knife or in a shower of bullets. Now he knew it to be true. O’Reilly was close, and the promise of the grudge and its consequence was coming to fruition at the hands of two Comanche scouts. “Langdon was your friend,” the tall one said.

  “How do you know so much about me? I don’t even know your name.”

  “My name is not important to you at the moment. Your life is in my hands. That’s all you need to know.”

  “If you say so. You’re right, though. Charlie Langdon was my friend a long time ago, before the war.”

  “Your war? The Faraway War between the whites? What a shame you didn’t kill more of your own kind. Our war has been here since the White Disease appeared unbidden one day, and has refused to leave ever since. Your likes have driven us to the four corners of our lands, and yet here we are—holding a gun to the back of your head. Some wars never end. Your personal war with Charlie Langdon still rages, as does my war with the foulness of your white breath on the land my grandfathers walked on.”

  “Yes,” Josiah said, “me with a gun to the back of my head. Charlie Langdon betrayed me more than once, and he continues to reach from beyond the grave to pursue his quest to see me done in. He was my deputy when I was marshal of Seerville and he abused the power of the badge. He still thought he was at war, that there were no rules that applied to him. Once he stepped foot into the clothes of a murderer and thief, they fit him like a glove. I’m glad he’s dead, but obviously I’m not free of him yet.”

  “You could all be dead, but yet we stand here talking,” the Comanche said.

  “No need to do these fellas any harm,” Josiah answered, dodging the reality of the truth of the Indian’s statement. “I’m the sergeant. They have no quarrel with you.”

  “They are Rangers, and they are white. That is enough of a reason to kill them. The young one would shoot me in a second, given the chance.”

  Josiah silently acknowledged this was true. The Indian wasn’t stupid.

  They stopped then, about ten yards past the tree.

  Both Comanche exchanged a set of glances that were surely prearranged and meant something to each but nothing to Josiah.

  There was no evidence of a greater plan that he could see, but Josiah’s mouth went completely dry. It felt like the saltiness that hovered over the brine creek was caked on his tongue.

  “I will order them not to shoot,” Josiah said.

  The Comanche laughed, then drew his eyes and mouth tight. “There’s enough innocent Comanche blood in this ground for us to hate them until the moon falls from the sky for the last time.”

  “You have no say in that matter, Ranger Wolfe.” The short one finally spoke. The one Josiah had decided to call Little Shirt since they were not going to tell him their names.

  Little Shirt’s voice was gravelly and held a strong, nononsense tone—a direct contradiction to his size. Maybe Josiah had been wrong, he thought. Maybe Little Shirt was in charge. Not that it mattered. He, too, would kill both Indians at the first chance to be free of the situation he found himself in.

  Killing didn’t come easy to him like it did some men, but he would fight to the death, there was no question about that.

  “O’Reilly has nothing against them,” Josiah said. He wanted to keep the Comanche talking as long as possible. It seemed to be working so far.

  “You think you know what the Badger holds as currency to kill a man, Ranger? If a man has no red hair or lacks that melancholy Irish lilt in his voice, then Liam O’Reilly would just as soon see him dead. Flayed open is more like it, his guts burned to a crisp so nothing can gain satisfaction or sustenance from his flesh. Feels that way about Comanche, too. His hate knows no boundaries. His spite is a source of pride. But you should know all of this—you gave him more power once you marched Charlie Langdon to his hangman’s noose. How does it feel to know you gave power to an evil man?”

  Josiah could not challenge the statement, though he didn’t know much about Liam O’Reilly, just recent actions, since the spring, since running down Charlie Langdon—before then, he’d never heard of this Liam O’Reilly, this man the Comanche referred to as the Badger. “Is O’Reilly your friend or not?”

  “You should hold your lips together, Ranger Wolfe, or you will lose your tongue,” the tall one said. He would be called Big Shirt if the short one was Little Shirt. “And the ability to assume, as well, that we are only doing O’Reilly’s bidding.”

  They pushed on, walking beyond Scrap and Red, without further incident. Josiah was relieved, but far from certain of Scrap and Red’s fate. Or his own, for that matter.

  Their horses, including Josiah’s Appaloosa, Clipper, were tied to trees near the barren creek fifty
yards off to their left.

  Josiah had to restrain himself from violently protesting at the thought of leaving Clipper behind, but decided to heed Big Shirt’s warning. He had no guns, no knives, no power . . . and nobody covering his back. As hard as it was, though, as long as they were walking away from Scrap and Red, then he was just going to go along and not make waves until the right opportunity presented itself.

  The Indians’ plans seemed even more certain, and since they had the upper hand and had not killed all three of them in one fell swoop, their action propelled Josiah to believe even more that something was afoot that he did not understand.

  What lay ahead of him was well within the grasp of his imagination, though.

  He had seen firsthand what a swarm of Comanche or Kiowa warriors could—and would—do to a defenseless man. Their savagery was firmly planted within the locality of his nightmares, even worse than any of the hauntings he had brought back to Texas from the War Between the States.

  And leaving Clipper behind was like leaving family. Other than his two-year-old son, Lyle, who was his only living flesh and blood, back in Austin, the horse was almost all he had to care about in this world.

  Big Shirt said something to Little Shirt in Comanche, in a knowing, and hard, whisper.

  There was no way to translate the language; the words were a jumble of nasally grunts and sounds that didn’t make any sense to Josiah. Still, it was obvious that the Indians had come to the next part of their plan, and Little Shirt was giving orders of some kind, since Big Shirt nodded, his eyes unblinking until the last syllable was spoken.

  Little Shirt whistled, and within a second or two, a trio of horses appeared from behind the closest outcropping of rocks.

  There was not a man, or Ranger, in Texas who wasn’t aware of and did not silently respect the prowess most Comanche demonstrated when it came to horsemanship.

  They were legendary trainers and riders, the success of many of their battles based solely on the abilities they put to use atop their mounts. All three horses were mustangs, one tall, fully chestnut mare, that had a hard look in her eyes, like she was full of rage, and two paints, one mostly white with small blotches of chestnut.

  Little Shirt pulled back, leaving only Big Shirt with his rifle barrel pushed against Josiah’s skull. There was no chance, yet, to break away. The short Indian grabbed the three horses’ leads and walked them over to Josiah and Big Shirt.

  “Get on. But don’t try to be brave, Ranger. Your life means nothing to me,” Big Shirt ordered.

  “Where to?”

  “Do you believe in Hell?”

  Josiah hesitated. “I’ve been there before.”

  “Get on,” Big Shirt repeated. “The missionaries would be disappointed in you, Josiah Wolfe.”

  “They need to get a look at Hell for themselves,” Josiah said.

  “Something we agree on,” Big Shirt said.

  Josiah felt the pressure of the rifle barrel leave the back of his neck. But Little Shirt had him square in his sights, Red’s long gun, a .50-caliber carbine, aimed straight at Josiah’s head.

  It was no use trying to escape.

  He could not abide being a prisoner, but leaving this world because of that, leaving all that he held dear and had managed to love again, was not worth it.

  He heaved himself up on the horse, the tall chestnut mare. She was not amused, and snorted and rustled backwards as he got settled on the horse’s strong back. There was no saddle, just a well-worn blanket.

  Big Shirt mounted his horse, a smaller paint, and took over holding Josiah at bay as Little Shirt followed suit and mounted his own horse.

  Now that all three of them were atop their respective horses, Little Shirt eased into the lead and let out a shrieking hoot and holler, a scream that was more suited to a nighttime attack from a cougar or coyote than a man.

  The Comanche legged his horse deeply with his knees, urging it to break away and run.

  Before Josiah knew what had happened, Big Shirt slapped the rump of the chestnut mare, and she tore out after Little Shirt. Big Shirt was close on Josiah’s tail, and both Comanche had their rifles in hand, a bullet just a pull of the trigger away from cracking his skull wide open, putting a permanent end to his conscious knowledge of daylight and his pursuit of a full, satisfied life.

  Dust obscured Josiah’s vision, but he could see enough to know that they were going to circle the tree that Scrap and Red Overmeyer were bound to.

  He had no control of the horse. The mare acted like he did not exist on her back.

  Both Comanche continued their screams and yells. “Yip, yip, yaw!”

  Josiah could see Scrap struggling against the bindings of the rope, though it did him no good. At that moment, Scrap’s fate was far from certain, and it looked like the boy could barely breathe.

  Fear was not a characteristic Josiah was accustomed to seeing in Scrap’s eyes. He had only known the young Ranger since May, since joining up with the Frontier Battalion in San Antonio. Since then, the two had been thrown together in a few skirmishes that could have gone badly for Josiah if it hadn’t been for Scrap’s shooting and riding skills. There were times when Josiah liked Scrap well enough, like when he kept his mouth shut, and there were other times when the kid just plain got on his last nerve. Scrap was moody and unpredictable, traits he needed to shed if he was going to be a good Ranger—if he got the chance, if he survived.

  As they rounded the tree, Red Overmeyer made eye contact with Josiah.

  Unlike Scrap, Overmeyer did not struggle, did not try to scream through his gag. Instead he looked away from Josiah, then lowered his head to the ground, like he had already surrendered to a predestined fate.

  In a swift and sudden pull of the trigger, Little Shirt fired the carbine, his aim perfect.

  Red Overmeyer’s head slammed back against the tree in an explosion of blood and bone. The only scream to rise into the air came from both Indians in a victorious cheer. Scrap’s scream was frozen in his throat, muffled by the kerchief stuffed in his mouth and his own fear.

  Josiah jumped at the explosion, expecting it but shocked and scared by it nonetheless. He feared Scrap was next, then his turn, too—but it did not escape Josiah’s attention that Red had just been shot by a bullet from his own rifle.

  The three circled the tree again. Big Shirt fired his rifle this time, hitting Red directly in the heart. If there was any chance that Overmeyer was suffering, that thought came to a quick end. He was dead, though his eyes were wide open, fixated on the ground, unfazed by the cascading blood from the first shot.

  With that, the two Comanche brought all three horses nose to nose, putting Josiah and the angry chestnut mare even more tightly in between them, the reins of Josiah’s horse secure in Big Shirt’s hand.

  They pushed around the tree again in a fast circle, without firing another shot, then headed south, leaving Scrap Elliot in a cloud of dust, blood, and flies that already smelled opportunity, the hoots and hollers of the Indians rising to the clouds, along with Red Overmeyer’s soul. If a man believed in such a thing.

  CHAPTER 3

  A solid blanket of gray clouds had pushed its way east to reveal the promise of a beaming, late autumn sun and a pure cloudless sky. There was no weather, or any other apparent obstacle, that would slow the unlikely trio down.

  Big Shirt said they were going to Hell for a visit.

  As far as Josiah was concerned, there was no turning back now. Elliot would have to fend for himself, find his way out of the bindings and off the tree—or die there from starvation, if Josiah couldn’t escape and turn back to free his fellow Ranger.

  At the moment, there were some questions to be answered, and the only Hell that Josiah could conceive of was the Hell that Big Shirt and Little Shirt were going to pay at the first opportunity he could deliver it.

  The method of delivery was immaterial. A rock, a fist, a kick with a hard boot heel to the throat, crushing the Adam’s apple of either of his captors. H
e liked the thought of them suffering, dying a slow death, like what was promised him and delivered to Red Overmeyer. It would be interesting to see who the promise came to first.

  Josiah was not encouraged by the clear sky.

  The coming of a near perfect day offered little hope that everything was going to be all right, that it would work out—his life didn’t work like that. A storm would provide more opportunity for escape. As it was, Josiah’s blood ran hot, and his hands, though still bound tightly, ached to get a hold of a gun. But all he could do was ride the angry chestnut mare and spit at Little Shirt.

  Little Shirt pulled a pistol from a holster belted on his side, Josiah’s .45-caliber Colt, his Peacemaker, and pointed it at him in one swift, angry pull. “Do that again, Ranger, and I’ll kill you.”

  “What’s stopping you?” Josiah spit again, this time hitting his target right between the eyes.

  Josiah had decided he wasn’t going to wait to get to Hell. He was already there.

  Little Shirt was either going to kill him right then and there, or he was going to give Josiah an opportunity to break the horse he was riding out of the Indian’s grip and flee toward the perfect blue sky.

  Josiah was willing to die trying to save himself—therein saving Scrap, too, if he could make it back to the kid. He wasn’t willing to be a passive captive. He wasn’t willing to live with Red Overmeyer’s untimely death on his shoulders and just surrender to the two Comanche, and let them lead him to Hell or beyond.

  Little Shirt screamed something in his own language from deep within his heaving chest, then wiped away the wad of spit as quickly as he could.

  Comanche was just as baffling a language to Josiah as Spanish was, but there was no mistaking that the Indian was angry. Josiah chuckled. “Kill me now.”