The Badger's Revenge

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Or he could find a place to hide and hope he would be safe.

  It only took Josiah a second to decide to run.

  But the decision came a second too late.

  The back door of the hotel pushed open and slammed against the wall with a loud bang. The darkness was immediately cut with bright, intense light, shadows, movement, and the smell of anger and sweat, as well as that of fresh coal oil. A torch had been lit.

  Clarmont pushed out the door, leading with his rifle.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Josiah swung the rock as hard as he could, smashing it into the man’s skull with as much force as he could muster.

  He didn’t want to maim the man; he wanted to stop him dead in his tracks. It was a life for a life—war had been proclaimed, in Josiah’s mind, the moment his hands had been bound and he’d been taken captive by Big Shirt and Little Shirt.

  Clarmont yelled out in astonishment and pain. His surprise was mixed with the sound of shattering bone, blood escaping his brain through any avenue possible; ears, mouth, and nose.

  The damage done, Josiah let go of the rock, and tackling him with all of his remaining strength, he jumped at Clarmont, who was already halfway to his knees.

  Josiah only wanted one thing now: Clarmont’s rifle.

  The rifle looked to be a Spencer repeating carbine, in which case, if Josiah was right and the man had a fully loaded the rifle, he would have seven shots to protect himself and flee.

  There was no mistaking that Liam O’Reilly and the Comanche brothers were not far behind.

  Tackling the man was another risk, another gamble, but it was the only option Josiah had. A rock against a gang of men was less than practical. He needed a gun to protect himself.

  Clarmont fell to the ground with a heavy thud, now silent. More footsteps followed down the hall past the hotel kitchen, and two more men pushed out the door. One of them was holding a blazing torch, trying to see what was going on. The other one had a new model ’73 Winchester in each hand, cocked and ready.

  Josiah had judged the motion and gravity of the tackle correctly when he dove at Clarmont, and he was able to grab the Spencer before it hit the ground.

  And as he rolled, all of the action had loosened the rope on his wrists, and it fell away completely with one final hearty shake, freeing his hands once and for all.

  In a quick series of maneuvers, Josiah was up in a squat position and firing the first round, catching the man with the two Winchesters square in the right shoulder.

  The man fell back into the hotel, knocked back partially by the force of the shot, but also by his own will, realizing that the upper hand was no longer theirs, since Clarmont was lying on the ground, nothing more than a mound of lifeless flesh, his lifeblood quickly draining out of the gaping hole in his head—and Josiah now possessed a rifle of equal power.

  For good measure, Josiah fired off another shot. His aim was certain, catching the man just above the ankle, fully eliminating his ability to give chase.

  The man with the torch also jumped back into the hall, tossing the flaming club toward Josiah.

  Josiah dodged the flame and realized that in freeing his own hands, the man was set on taking up one of the fallen Winchesters.

  There was a gang rushing the hall behind the injured man, and a rousing crowd had fallen out into the street in front of the hotel in search of the latest round of trouble to befall Comanche.

  A fire bell clanged, and in the distance, a trio of dogs started barking. And to add to the chaos, there were more rising voices, screams and shouts and orders, and the sound of gathering horses.

  Josiah took a deep breath, then turned and ran toward the edge of the darkness as fast as he could, trying with all of his might to ignore the growing pain from the gunshot wound in his calf and the weariness that was rapidly draining his energy.

  His failing physical capacity was being overridden by the heavy rush of fear that had settled in him, along with the strong need to survive, with the warning of certain death or something worse: recapture by the Comanche and Liam O’Reilly’s gang of men.

  A solid wall of black clouds hid the moon. Pain ran up Josiah’s leg like it was venom from a rattlesnake bite. Sweat from exertion, fear, and pain mixed and dripped onto his lips, reminding him of his thirst, of his need to find someplace to hide.

  Buildings were nothing more than shadows, and there was no way he was going to rush into a house with a burning lamp set in the window, causing more fear and unwelcome attention. He wanted to avoid human contact at all costs.

  There was still a rise of orders and furious movement behind him, in the center of town and surrounding the Darcy Hotel.

  Josiah worried about the little girl, certain he would be responsible for her nightmares once her head hit the pillow and sleep swept her away from the violent world she walked in during the day.

  Running full out at night came with its own causes for serious concern.

  A hole could take him down, making him an easy capture for Liam O’Reilly. Or he could stumble over a watering trough, smack his head on an unseen post, and die trying to escape. But thankfully, Josiah had a little experience running at night.

  It was one of the skills that had saved him during the war.

  Once he reached a certain level of fear or anger or need to flee, it was like his body no longer belonged to him but moved on its own accord, his feet dancing on pure instinct, his eyes cutting a path that a cat would have been lucky to see.

  He could only hope that his skills would rise from wherever they slept and save his life one more time, like they had in Chickamauga and Knoxville.

  His heart was beating so hard Josiah was certain his chest was rolling like a wheat field facing the wind, the rhythm of blood wild and fast, the organ preparing to jump out of his skin if he ran any faster. But he did. He had to. A quick look over his shoulder gave him even more reason to fear. There were several riders on horses, all carrying torches, heading right for him.

  He zigged, then zagged, pumping his legs furiously, the concern about his beating heart gone—he was only worried about saving his hide. Plain and simple, that seemed like a slim possibility.

  Ahead, he saw two barns, both small—three or four stalls at the most. The closest barn sat a fair distance from a well-lit house. The other one, a run of about five hundred yards, sat in near darkness. If there was anyone at the house it seemed to belong to, then the barn looked empty, dark, and unattended. He hoped his instinct was right.

  Josiah gripped the Spencer, knowing for certain he had five shots left, and made his way to the farthest barn, sure that he was about to make his last stand.

  CHAPTER 7

  The posse thundered by the barn, but it was easy to tell that a few of the riders had dropped off to conduct a close search.

  Josiah could only hope that there wasn’t a discernible trail of blood for them to follow. He’d scooted his feet upon entering the barn, wiping away as best he could any sign of entrance in the ankle-deep straw. But he knew that any man who could track a rabbit on hard dirt could see right through his feeble ploy to hide any evidence of his existence.

  A dark corner of the barn beckoned as Josiah was able to adjust his eyesight. He had to trust his feet to find a high pile of straw and hay.

  He burrowed inside, destroying well-established mice and rat tunnels. The smell of rot and rodent piss was strong, but it didn’t matter, he could go no farther. He would die where he lay, or live to fight another day. It was that simple.

  Regulating his breathing took a second, then he pushed the barrel of the Spencer to the edge of the pile of straw and cleared enough of it away to have a line of sight to the huge double doors that he’d just entered through.

  There was nothing to do now but wait for his pursuers.

  He was too close to town for them not to check the barn. It was just a matter of time before they came looking for him. Through the thinly planked walls he could hear the slow and steady trot of horse hoo
ves, circling the barn, looking for any sign of him.

  A small glint of light passed by the other side of the barn; a torch and murmured voices.

  The loss of blood had weakened Josiah to the point of fearing for his next breath.

  Not only did his leg hurt, but the pain had traveled all the way to his chest, even reigniting the tender pain of the old knife wound.

  Chills began to travel across every inch of his skin. He was sweating profusely. The inside of his mouth tasted like old dirt, metallic and unhealthy. It was the taste of death, and Josiah knew it.

  But he held his breath and tried his best not to move, as the barn door creaked open. Odd thing was, this all seemed very familiar to Josiah, reminded him of fighting the Northern Aggressors in Antietam a lifetime ago. As it was, this was not the first time he had thought his shallow breath might be the last one he’d ever take.

  The war never left him—or any man who saw battle, for that matter. Most days he could push away the ghostly battle screams, disassociate himself with suitable tasks of some kind to make the memory vanish.

  But today was not most days.

  The only comfort that came to his mind now was the pure and true fact that he had lived to see another day—then, and hopefully now.

  Survival of the battle in Georgia came mostly at luck’s hand. Most men didn’t have such good fortune—his mother prayed for him, he knew that, but he couldn’t credit her holy actions as the cause of his survival.

  Antietam was a bloody day, the casualties so deep it was said that nearly eighty percent of the Texas Brigade had been killed on that single day. It was a larger loss than any other brigade suffered in the whole war, on either side, from beginning to end. And Josiah had been there in the thick of it. He still bore his own scars from the battle, though he tried to ignore them. Now it was impossible not to consider his own mortality, just like he had in the last moment of retreat to the West Woods at the end of the battle, broken, bleeding, running for his life, stumbling over more dead men than he had ever seen in his life, or hoped to ever see again.

  There were streams of blood running in every direction, moans and groans filling the air.

  If the Grim Reaper was actually working the field, then he must have been sweating at the brow—working hard carting off the dead to whatever realm the wraith came from in the first place.

  The surgery tents were in full bloom, the surrounding ground red and muddy with blood, crates overflowing with amputated legs and arms. Screams mixed in the air, too, and as night fell, the cries of pain did not stop. The owls remained silent. Gone. Or watching, from atop the trees, the madness of men.

  Josiah had been certain it would be impossible to survive another day after that. But he had.

  The win at Antietam was a fragile but certain victory for the Union. In the days that followed, the blood that was left behind on the fields of Sharpsburg and Antietam gave Lincoln a window to fight back with his words and ideas. He released an early version of the Emancipation Proclamation, further isolating the rest of the world, particularly England and France, against the Confederacy— at least to the point of ceasing to offer any financial aid to the cause.

  It was a blow from which the South would never fully recover.

  There had been no way for Josiah to know, of course, that he was fighting a losing battle on that bloody day—just as there was no way now to know the outcome of his current, dire circumstance in an unknown barn in Comanche, Texas, nearly twenty years later.

  This day, and Antietam, all felt familiar. Too familiar, and that was the troubling part. Coupled with his own physical weakness, he felt like he had given every ounce of his being to win a futile war, and it still was not enough.

  Josiah held his breath, tried not to move, steadied the barrel of the Spencer the best he could.

  A mouse ran over his right hand, flittering across his skin in fear, fleeing as quickly as it could.

  The rodent didn’t startle him. He was aware of its presence, as well as the village of them that lived in the hay mound, so he was not surprised when they decided to run. He just hoped they would go one at a time, scurry from the light deeper into the hay instead of outward, drawing attention to his position.

  He remained still, unfazed, as the light inside the barn grew brighter.

  The smell of coal oil filled interior, the threat of fire a concern to animal and man alike, but more so to Josiah. He had seen the aftermath of a fire in a barn, seen the charred human bones of someone left behind, and now that fate could very well be his.

  Odd thing was, he was certain he heard the horses outside fade into the distance. They had not stopped scouting, searching for him, so he was a little confused—but nonetheless aware of the threat coming his way.

  Silence filled the barn.

  Sweat dripped from the tip of Josiah’s nose to the top of his lip. He tasted his own salt, feared for his own life, and pressed his finger tighter on the trigger—just as the light pulled back and disappeared.

  The barn went black.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, Josiah slowly stirred then started awake, suddenly aware of the passage of time.

  The riders had gone on, and the torch had vanished. Though Josiah was not sure if he had lost consciousness before or after the torch had come and gone.

  It didn’t matter; at the moment, he seemed to be safe. Not to mention alive and armed, still equipped with the Spencer and five cartridges to protect himself with. That was more currency than he had had since first catching the trail of Big Shirt—which now seemed as much a trick as the attack on Lost Valley by Lone Wolf in July. Still, he didn’t know for sure that he, Scrap, and Red had been lured to the cropping of rocks by Big Shirt and Little Shirt. Or if the Indians’ true cause all along had been to take Josiah hostage.

  It was the first time that he’d had the strength and clarity of thought to question the events of the day.

  Not that he was healed. But the bleeding in his leg had stopped, congealed as he slept. It was apparently just a flesh wound, though at the time the bullet hit him, it had felt like a full-on shot. He couldn’t be sure that he was right now, and he would have to wait until daylight to make sure, but he thought he knew the difference between a graze and a direct hit, and he was almost certain that he didn’t have lead lodged in the muscle or next to the bone.

  He was hungry, thirsty, and weak, but the fear of death—at least impending death and doom—seemed to have passed.

  Josiah was reasonably certain at that moment that he was going to live to see another day. Then the questions crept back into his mind as he lay there, still afraid to move in the solid darkness, unsure of where he was or what was next.

  If it had been Big and Little Shirt’s intention, or mission, to capture him because he had a reward on his head—most likely posted and sworn out by Liam O’Reilly—then why did the Comanche shoot Red Overmeyer? Kill him like a trapped animal, tied to the tree . . . and leave Scrap there alive?

  At least that was the way it had appeared.

  The last time Josiah had seen Scrap, the boy’s eyes were filled with fright, and he was tied to the tree, struggling to escape with Red behind him, his head half blown off.

  Not much of it made any sense at the moment to Josiah.

  Suddenly he was an outlaw being pursued by an outlaw—for what cause? A price on his head for what crime? He was a Texas Ranger, damn it, not some low-life gunslinger who killed for the pleasure or power of it.

  How did a simple expedition to scout out Indian cattle rustlers turn into a trail of confusion, leading to the death of a good, solid Ranger like Red Overmeyer?

  Josiah exhaled. Just thinking about all of it made him weak, and he decided that there was no place to go at the moment. What he needed most was more rest. Hopefully, there would be plenty of time to get his answers once the sun broke over the horizon.

  The first question: Was Scrap Elliot still alive?

  If he could get free of the town of Comanch
e, then Josiah knew he had no choice but to head straight back to that tree and see what had become of Scrap—and Red.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nobody likes to wake up with a gun barrel firmly lodged against their lips.

  “You move one muscle, mister, and I’ll blow your fool head off.”

  Josiah flickered his eyes open.

  His vision was blurry, and he was weak—but not stupid. He restrained himself. He was not going to move an inch, but instead, he would do as he was told, and not search out the Spencer that had fallen from his grip sometime during the night. Josiah still wasn’t sure if he was awake or in the midst of one of his common nightmares.

  “What the hell are you doin’ in my barn?”

  Josiah started to answer the question, but stopped when the barrel of the rifle at his lips was pushed just a little harder. This person meant business. Josiah was fully awake now.

  “Don’t answer that. I know why you’re here. You’re that Ranger that the sheriff’s lookin’ for, ain’t you?”

  Josiah didn’t move, just blinked his eyes, clearing his vision. He saw his accuser clearly now, at the other end of the rifle, a .50 carbine, and was a little surprised.

  The gun was held by a girl, well not quite a girl, a young woman, maybe twenty years old.

  Tangled brown hair fell over her shoulders, and she was dressed in a blue cotton dress that matched the color of her eyes, topped with an oversized woolen, four-button man’s sack coat. The color of the coat had nearly bled out of it, and it was as gray as the coming winter sky. The girl’s eyes were cold, hard as the metal of the rifle in her hands, not showing fear but outright anger and indignation.

  The dress would have been loose-fitting at any time, but now she looked to be in the late stages of pregnancy. Her belly was full and rounded, dropped low at the waist, protruding like she’d stuffed two full-grown pumpkins up under the dress. Her breasts protruded, full and ripe obviously, the cleavage deep, but thankfully hidden mostly by the pull of the simple sack coat. Her feet were bare and dirty.