Josiah thought that Feders’s aloofness was to his detriment, a sign of the struggle he was having leading the company. Captain Hiram Fikes, Hank to his friends, had always been right in the thick of every aspect of Ranger life, whether it was eating, gambling, wrestling, or drinking long into the night. As far as Josiah was concerned, Pete would do himself a favor to remember Fikes’s skills, but it wasn’t his place to provide the reminder—or the lesson in leadership. Still it was good to see Pete Feders.
The captain dismounted his horse, a black stallion that had come from the stables of Hiram Fikes.
The captain’s widow favored Pete as a suitor for her daughter, Pearl, and had made it clearly known to everyone that he was her only choice—even over Major John B. Jones, who had taken a turn at courting Pearl.
The black stallion had been a gift made with the public intention of making sure the widow’s wishes were met without question. It did not matter what Pearl herself wanted, since she had declined Feders’s proposal of marriage more than once in recent memory.
Josiah wasn’t sure of the entire reasoning behind her rejection of Pete’s affections, but he had a pretty good idea—and that had more to do with her relationship with him, or a desire for one, than it did with the fact that Pete was a captain in the Rangers, where her father had lived a double life and, ultimately, lost his life.
“It is good to see you standing on two feet, Wolfe. I figured you for a dead man this time out. The fate of Ranger Overmeyer did not bode well for a positive outcome when we began our search,” Feders said.
“I count myself a lucky man at the moment.” Josiah looked past Feders and nodded at Scrap. The boy flashed a brief smile, then looked away.
Josiah had some questions for Scrap, like how he got loose and found his way back to the Ranger camp, what had happened to Red, and how they found him in Comanche. But those questions, and more, would have to wait until they were free of their current troubles. The hows and whys really didn’t matter at the moment. Josiah was just happy to see Scrap Elliot alive and well, on his horse, continuing his life as a Ranger.
“It seems that way,” Feders said. “I think the circumstances we all find ourselves in appear odd. Where are the people of Comanche on this fine day? The storm has passed. I assumed the streets would be jammed with citizens restocking their needs—grain, feed, libations, whatever the desire.”
“There is a storm still raging on here.”
“Explain, Ranger,” Feders said.
“There is little time for that. The troubles are recent. Just happened minutes before your arrival.”
“Our jurisdiction doesn’t allow us to interfere, you know that, Wolfe.”
“I’m aware of that, but I am not free of trouble, and neither is this town,” Josiah said. “We have no choice but to interfere.”
“What say you?”
“Liam O’Reilly robbed the bank within the last hour. He is on the run, heading north, out of town. They killed the banker, Henry Peterson, and the sheriff is dead, too. I believe at the hands of O’Reilly, though I don’t know that for certain. He was riding with the sheriff, tracking me down after I freed myself from the Comanche brothers who took me hostage. Something must have gone wrong, or the sheriff stood up to O’Reilly, one or the other. Either suggestion is just speculation on my part. What matters is the sheriff is dead.”
Feders waved his hand, motioning for a man, a Ranger Josiah did not know too well at all, B. D. Donley, to dismount and join in the conversation. “There is no county sheriff to take up the reins on this one?” He turned his attention back to Josiah. “What about a deputy?”
“That’s part of the trouble that still remains with me, Pete,” Josiah said.
“What do you mean?” Feders asked, an annoyed look flashing across his face. He had made it known that he didn’t like to be called by his first name and found it a betrayal of rank and friendship. Josiah had known Pete Feders for so long it was difficult to call him anything else . . . especially Captain.
“I killed the deputy,” Josiah said.
A final bell tolled in the distance, from an unseen church standing sentinel over an unseen cemetery. Bill Clarmont’s funeral was now most certainly concluded, and the townsfolk were free to return to their daily lives—if they dared.
A few wagons appeared on the main street of town, the passengers and drivers dressed in full black attire, even though the day was more suited for something lighter, something that would denote more of a celebration. The riders in the wagon looked leery of the assemblage of Rangers.
Just as Josiah had heard the toll of the funeral bells, the mourners had surely heard the gunshots and the ruckus caused by O’Reilly. And seeing a troop of men, all dressed differently, not in military garb, with no markings to distinguish them as Rangers, probably brought more fear than curiosity.
Comanche had seen its fair share of vigilantes; lawless mobs that had wreaked havoc on those that followed the straight and narrow, living quiet, law-abiding lives.
The sun had risen high into a cloudless sky. The color of it was a solid blue, strong, not fragile like some November skies tended to be. It could have been a perfect summer day instead of a day drawing nearer and nearer to a brief winter. The wind was warm, pushing up from the south, and even in the center of town there was a flavor of salt and humidity to the air.
But Josiah’s throat was dry. He stood over the dead Comanche, Little Shirt, uncertain of what to do next. The rest of the boys—Josiah’s term, and most every other Ranger’s term for the company—had followed him to the scene in the street, all mounted on their horses, ready for the next order from Captain Feders. B. D. Donley had followed behind Josiah, along with Feders.
“How come you were a-limpin’?” B. D. Donley asked.
“Caught a graze. I’m all right,” Josiah said. In all of the commotion, the pain was a distant irritation, but there was no question that it still hurt and was open to the possibility of infection.
“You takin’ the honors of the scalp?” Donley said, stepping past Josiah. Donley was a short fellow with a scratchy voice, a ruddy face, and a set of eyes that could have belonged to a crow; all black and beady.
Josiah shook his head no. He’d never scalped a dead Indian, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“What’s the matter,” Donley continued, chiding Josiah and completely ignoring Pete Feders, “ain’t you got the stomach for it?”
“I didn’t kill this man for a trophy,” Josiah said. “I killed him because I had to.”
“Don’t look like you’re in a position to be all righteous, Wolfe,” Donley said, his skinny chest puffing out, looking past Little Shirt at the gathering crowd.
“That’s enough, Donley,” Feders said. “You’ll not make an exhibition of this.”
“Ain’t right, Captain,” Donley said. He pulled his lips tight, till they almost disappeared. “This Comanch would scalp a live child. I know, I’ve seen it done. Ain’t a purty sight, I tell you. Rots in your dreams so you can’t make the bad pictures go away.”
“This is not the place,” Feders said, lowering his voice. “This town isn’t anything but a powder keg waiting to blow. I want you to take two other men and go north after Liam O’Reilly. Track him as far as you can. Kill him if you get the chance, but don’t stay out past three days.”
“That it, Captain?” Donley said, a wide smile growing across his face.
“From you it is. Wolfe, I want you and Elliot to get out of here as quickly as you can. Head on to Austin and wait for word from me. Rangers or not, I don’t think we’ll be able to save Wolfe here from the rope once the crowd sees that the sheriff is dead and there’s no law presiding over the town.”
“I’m not running,” Josiah said, stepping up past Donley, nearly knocking him off balance. “Don’t even think about sending me out of here, Pete. I aim to finish what I started.”
“It looks like you did. Now go. That’s an order.” Feders held Josiah’s gaze. There
was no question he meant business. The stare was cold and hard, and the scar on Feders’s face pulsed bright red. “I don’t mean to repeat myself, Wolfe. You need me and the boys right now, so I would take the opportunity to depart as quickly as you can before someone gets the idea that you don’t need your scalp, either.”
Josiah sighed heavily and started to turn away, but Feders stopped him with a quick grab of the shoulder.
“You call me Pete one more time, Wolfe, and you won’t have to worry about me being your captain. Is that understood, Sergeant?”
Josiah nodded. “Yes, sir.” He ignored the growing crowd around Little Shirt, kicked his boot into the muddy road, and headed for Lady Mead. “This isn’t over,” he said quietly, under his breath. “It’s far from over, Pete.”
CHAPTER 16
Josiah and Scrap rode south, out of town, both of them pushing their horses to a full run as soon as they had settled into their saddles.
Scrap took the lead, pushing his trusted blue roan mare, Missy, as hard as he could. Josiah let him have a couple of full horse lengths before urging Lady Mead to keep up.
He was glad to be heading south, toward home, toward Austin—but he slowed as they broke free of Comanche, hoping to catch sight of Billie Webb’s house.
He silently hoped to see Billie outside, maybe hanging diapers to dry in the bright sun, or tending to what chickens of her flock remained. But he didn’t see her. Only smoke rising lazily out of the chimney, casting a thin veil of black against an otherwise perfect blue afternoon sky.
For a moment, Josiah thought about pulling away from Scrap and taking Charlie Webb’s palomino back to his widow, leaving her with something of value, at least to sell or trade when the need arose. But that would have to wait for another day. Pete Feders was unyielding with his orders: Go straight to Austin and wait there. No stops that weren’t necessary. Get far away from Comanche as quickly as possible.
Josiah understood the reasoning and knew that if he didn’t leave then, there might be more force in the town than the boys could handle or overcome. If all of Comanche had gone vigilante on John Wesley Hardin’s kin, then challenging a troop of Rangers wasn’t out of the question.
Seeing Billie and returning Lady Mead was not meant to be, and Josiah felt odd, full of regret at the thought. There was no way he was going to forget what she had done for him. Somehow, he was going to make things right, even though she didn’t expect him to.
If it wasn’t for Josiah, she would have had to birth her child alone, and that prospect was not lost on either one of them. Still, Josiah Wolfe was not the kind of man who rode away on another man’s horse, or wore his clothes for that matter, without offering something of like value. But he was doing so now—for the first time in his life, at least that he could remember.
It seemed the only way to change any of that was to do as he was told and return to Austin.
He did feel like less of a Ranger, though—less of a man really—not staying to face the consequences of his actions head-on, but he silently agreed that Feders would have a better chance at quelling any disputes if Josiah wasn’t there. Having Pete Feders act as his mouthpiece sure didn’t feel right . . . but orders were orders.
There would be consequences to face, regardless of what happened in Comanche. Josiah was certain of that—knew that once they reached Austin, he would have to clear himself, and the reputation of the Rangers, directly to Major Jones, if not to Governor Coke himself.
He wasn’t sure which group would be the toughest to face—the officers in the Frontier Battalion or the raging mad citizens of Comanche, Texas. Either way, he knew he’d face whatever came. Right now he just had a bullet graze in the leg. He hoped that would be the only scar from this incident.
Lady Mead seemed glad to be running, angling to keep up with Missy and Scrap. Josiah let the mare have her head, let her go, and was surprised that she was as comfortable a steed as his own horse, Clipper. Scrap remained silent, distant, and that was just fine with Josiah. The last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment was the high spirits of Scrap Elliot. There were stories to swap between the two of them, there was no doubt about that—but neither man seemed in a hurry to chew the fat and recount recent events.
They skirted a town, Priddy, causing them to head due west for a few miles.
Well away from the town, or any other ranches or human habitation, a creek rose up out of the soft ground and snaked southeast, cutting through hundred-foot-high limestone bluffs. The creek was called Cowhouse Creek since there was enough room to shelter a good-sized herd of longhorns from weather or just to rest. Signs of recent passing herds were everywhere. There were hardly any grasses that didn’t show sign of grazing, and the mud was dotted with hoofprints, hard and set, like artwork made of fired clay. But there weren’t any cows moving through at the moment.
There was plenty of vegetation, drawing bird life and smaller critters, like squirrels and rabbits. The ground was a stony clay loam beyond the creek and sandy near the edge, and there were large groves of healthy oaks, walnuts, and other hardwoods to offer a fair amount of shade. The outlying vistas were dotted with mesquite, chaparral, buffalo grasses, hackberry, and thickets of heavy brush. A few mountains—two thousand-foot-tall hills—rose up in the distance as well. The remainder of their travels weren’t going to be flatfooted, so they needed to be prepared.
Both he and Scrap had left Comanche without enough provisions, none as far as Josiah knew, to last the ride back to Austin, so the sight of the creek was a welcome relief since it looked to support a wide variety of wildlife to hunt—unlike the alkaline stretch of the San Saba lowland they had been captured in.
The day had stretched on, and now it was nearly evening. Daylight was fading gray. The perfect clear blue sky was being replaced by a melancholy one, dotted with thin vapors that looked more like veils than clouds. It would be a cooler night, but not cold, and for that, Josiah was glad. The bluffs would protect them from any high winds, but it would also make it difficult to escape any Indian attack if they chose the night for an assault. He still wasn’t convinced that Big Shirt was aligned with any band of Comanche, but it was hard to say. Still, Josiah knew he had to be wary of both Big Shirt and Liam O’Reilly. It was hard to say how far their shadows fell and who they were truly aligned with out in the world, away from town.
Regardless, Josiah was ready to stop and make camp, at least water the horses and find something to eat before nightfall set in.
He urged Lady Mead to catch up with Scrap and Missy, and the mare obliged heartily, showing a burst of speed and dedication that surprised Josiah. He thought the mare must have been ready for a rest. But her spunk almost convinced him to continue on and ride through the night. He was ready to be in familiar territory, if the city of Austin could be called familiar. And Josiah was more than ready to see Lyle and feel the floors of home under his feet, instead of the uncertain ground he’d been walking on in the last few days.
“Let’s make camp,” Josiah yelled out to Scrap as he met him neck to neck.
Scrap glared at Josiah and yelled back, “You left me.”
Josiah shook his head, not sure he’d heard Scrap clearly, but he had known the boy long enough to read the look on his face, the hard set of his jaw, to know that he was angry and petulant—which was the last thing Josiah wanted to deal with at the moment.
He would rather have been riding with a stranger, one of the boys he didn’t know very well, instead of Scrap Elliot. For some reason, Pete Feders seemed to think of the two of them as partners. Josiah certainly didn’t feel that way. At least not at the moment.
“Have it your way.” He yanked the reins and cut Lady Mead to the right, slowing her to an easy stop as gently as he could. He wasn’t about to take his frustration out on a horse like he’d seen some men do.
The creek was about twenty-five yards off to his left, running swiftly. Shadows danced on the water, and there was a slight smell of dead fish in the air. It was like being
let loose in the wild after being held captive longer than he ever wanted to be, and he took a deep breath of the acrid air and enjoyed every second of it. Oddly enough, his stomach grumbled with hunger.
Scrap had kept riding, disappearing quickly into the roll of the land and the chaparral in the distance. The ground was too hard for him to kick up a trail of dust, but Josiah was pretty certain that Scrap had slapped Missy on the rump, pushing her to run even faster.
Suit yourself, Josiah thought to himself. Suit yourself.
The fire reflected off the creek and played off the bluffs comfortably, like it belonged there . . . bringing light to a completely dark night. There was no sign of the moon, though the stars were pinpricks of sparkling silver for as far as the eye could see. Most of the insects that usually buzzed about at night had done whatever they do for the onset of winter—at least that was what Josiah thought, since it was nearly silent beyond the fire. The silence was a little unsettling. He felt like he was being watched—by more than just critters.
The Spencer was within reach, even though he only had two shots left. He still wore Charlie Webb’s Colt Frontier on his side, so he was more than ready if he should come under attack. Paranoia was not a trait Josiah usually carried with him, but his capture by the Comanche brothers had unsettled him . . . and left him full of questions.
Being taken captive almost felt like it had been part of an elaborate plan—but for that to happen, then Liam O’Reilly and the two brothers would have had to have known he was leaving Austin with only two men, that he was vulnerable for capture. Could someone have told them about the orders he’d been given to go after Comanche cow rustlers and bring them back for questioning? If so, who? And why?
Perhaps the why wasn’t such a difficult question to answer. Liam O’Reilly wanted him dead. And he would obviously go to any length to see that happen. The larger question, the one that was eating at Josiah the most, was who. Who could Liam O’Reilly recruit to get the information he needed from within the battalion of Rangers? Was there a spy within the ranks?
The Badger's Revenge Page 11