The Badger's Revenge

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Ofelia had never found herself in Scrap’s good graces, and Josiah was certain she never would. Still, there was a point to be made, and Josiah knew it, was seeing it with his own eyes. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

  The ground began to rumble under Josiah’s feet as the train grew closer. Lyle could barely contain himself, but it was obvious, with the restrained look on his tiny face, that he was trying with all of his might.

  Just then a man went running past the open doors of the livery.

  Scrap pushed past Josiah and ran out the door, coming to a stop. “Hey there, fella.”

  Josiah and Lyle joined Scrap, as much out of curiosity as dread, as to what Scrap was going to do next.

  The man, short and bald, a butcher’s apron still wrapped around his waist, stopped at Scrap’s yell.

  “What you want there, man?” The man turned to face Scrap and Josiah. His German accent was thick, and the apron and his hands were bloody. Something had stopped him right in the middle of carving his pork.

  “What’s going on? You know?” Scrap asked.

  The bald man nodded. “Rangers is coming into town. Word is they is draggin’ a Comanche behind them in ropes. Gonna take it right up to Governor Coke. That I got to see!” he said, turning, running off as fast as his portly body would allow.

  Josiah and Scrap looked at each other, said nothing, and started to run after the man. It didn’t take Josiah but about three steps into the run before he realized that Lyle had pulled away from him.

  The little boy was standing where Josiah left him, looking in the opposite direction, looking at the coming train. The big locomotive was slowing down, blowing off steam, the brakes squealing, the ground shaking hard.

  Lyle was set to break into a run toward the train . . . and Josiah knew that with the graze, the wound on his leg, the boy might be more than a match for him. He lunged toward Lyle, missing him just before he lit out.

  Lyle ran as fast as he could toward the train, clapping his hands, laughing, never looking back.

  “Lyle! Stop!” Josiah screamed.

  It took all the energy Josiah had to catch up with Lyle, reaching out for him like he was about to dive off a big cliff and unaware of the drought-ridden creek bed awaiting him at the bottom.

  Josiah scooped Lyle up into his arms, his heart beating rapidly, about three feet from the railroad tracks.

  He could hardly scold the boy—he was the one who’d gone off and left him. Still, the thought of Lyle running toward the train, being pulled under the wheels just by the pure force of their energy, was something Josiah could not bear to imagine. How could he live with himself if he let something happen to Lyle? Sickness had taken Lily and his three daughters. Negligence would be too much to take. He was sure of it.

  The train skidded past, sparks flying from the wheels, smoke rolling off the track from metal on metal, and then the steam. The horn blasted, pushing away any thought, any fear from Josiah’s mind.

  Lyle clapped and screamed with excitement, and Josiah just let him, held him as tight as he could, tears welling in his eyes. He ignored Scrap, who had stopped, motioning for Josiah to join him.

  The butcher disappeared around the corner, and the steam and smoke from the train enveloped Josiah and Lyle. For a long moment, Josiah wasn’t sure if either one of them were dead or alive. They were just lost in a fog—hot and sulfur-like—the sun beaming overhead, distant and unreachable.

  CHAPTER 26

  Congress Avenue was lined three-deep with people. It was like the Fourth of July had arrived on winter’s doorstep, bringing enough excitement to pull every November-weary resident out of the shops, saloons, and normal routines of the day, to the side of the road to see what was coming. Not that the weather was inclement—the sky was as blue as an exotic jewel—it was just surprising to see life as it generally was come to such a halting stop in the center of the capital city.

  The crowd was reasonably quiet, necks craning, whispers passing among friends and strangers, shoes curiously rustling on the boardwalk.

  It was such an event that it had even drawn the presence of Blanche Dumont, one of Austin’s most well-known madams, keeper and arbiter of a prosperous house of ill-mannered ladies, pushing her way to the street for a better view of the rumored Comanche. She reminded Josiah of Suzanne del Toro, another former keeper of soiled doves. Blanche had taken over the girls that worked the Paradise Hotel after Suzanne was murdered. Josiah had never returned there—and hoped he would never have to.

  Blanche Dumont rarely left the confines of her house, so seeing her out in public was akin to seeing a rattlesnake stand on its tail and dance of its own accord.

  The crowd parted in a wide V as Blanche made her way through the crowd. It was hard to miss her since Blanche was wearing white from head to toe; lace, velvet, and feathers adorning her expensive dress and hat. She looked like a swan making its way out to the center of a pond.

  Josiah turned his attention to the street, his interest in Blanche Dumont less than most people’s. He didn’t know her, had never had an encounter with her, or with any of her girls. He’d been to the cathouse district all right, but only the one visited mostly by Mexicans—Little Mexico—to a house called El Paradiso, not to the finer, more expensive houses run by Blanche Dumont.

  Those memories in Little Mexico were not pleasant, and his curiosity was so piqued by the sudden arrival of a Comanche on the main street in Austin that he could have cared less whether Blanche Dumont was now walking among the very women and men whose lives her business serviced and routinely affected in a negative manner.

  Josiah held tightly to Lyle’s hand. The temptation to carry him was great, but the boy was nearly three years old. Regardless of how Josiah felt—fear still coursing through his veins at even the thought of losing Lyle to the wheels of the train—he would not treat his son like a baby.

  He had lost sight of Scrap and could barely see over the crowd and into the street.

  There was nothing to see at that moment.

  He could only hope he knew who the Ranger was, who the Comanche was—he just didn’t know why they would be in Austin, heading down Congress toward the capitol building, drawing everyone out to see.

  “Been pulled out here on account of nothin’,” a man standing next to Josiah said. His teeth were yellow, and he smelled of cows and beer.

  Josiah didn’t respond, just pushed forward toward the street, making sure Lyle was close to him.

  “Why on earth would a Ranger bring a savage heathen into our town?” one woman said to another as Josiah passed by.

  It was a quiet statement, almost a whisper. The woman was dressed properly, but plainly—at least in comparison to Blanche Dumont—in a simple dress that fell all the way to the ground and was dark brown in color. She wore no hat, her long hair was piled on top of her head, and the dress bound her so tight at the waist that the woman’s pursed lips made her look like she was going to explode at any moment. From the appearance of things, she had been in the midst of a dress buying excursion when the excitement had pulled her out of the store.

  At first, Josiah thought the woman was talking to him.

  He was thick into the crowd now, shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t until another woman answered that he realized he wasn’t being spoken to directly.

  The woman responded, “To scare us. That’s what I think. So the Rangers will get more money from the governor.”

  Josiah pushed on, dragging Lyle with him, constantly looking down to make sure the boy was all right.

  The first woman posed a good question, Josiah thought. One he didn’t know the answer to. Though he didn’t agree with the second woman, he would be interested in seeing what the real reason was for bringing the Indian into Austin.

  It took some doing, but Josiah and Lyle made it to the edge of the crowd and could finally see up and down the street.

  Scrap Elliot was standing in the middle of the road all by himself, with a big, silly grin on his fac
e. “Hey, Wolfe, looka there, it’s B. D. Donley,” he said, pointing south.

  The last time Josiah had seen B. D. Donley, Pete Feders had ordered him and two other Rangers to head north out of Comanche to go after Liam O’Reilly.

  The other two Rangers, Karl Larson and Slim James, boys Josiah didn’t know well, were still riding with Donley—the three of them rode abreast, easing down the street like they were leading a parade.

  The Indian was bound behind them with a rope leading from each horse and wrapped around his hands, trailing after Donley’s tall black steed, a scrappy-looking stallion.

  Much to Josiah’s disappointment, Liam O’Reilly was nowhere to be seen.

  The trio of Rangers had obviously failed to capture the Badger but had succeeded in bringing in his Comanche sidekick, the one Josiah had called Big Shirt.

  Donley had wanted to scalp Little Shirt in the middle of the street upon his arrival in Comanche, so Josiah was surprised that he had let Big Shirt live upon capture and hadn’t just brought in a scalp and left it at that.

  Instead, Ranger Donley had created an event that was likely to draw attention all the way up to the capitol building, if it hadn’t already.

  Big Shirt looked weary, stumbling after the horse, trying to keep pace. The knees were torn out of his pants, and blood could be seen on his skin, even from where Josiah stood. Still, the Indian had a scowl on his face, feeding the Anglo fear of Comanche with a full dose, even though it wasn’t needed.

  Josiah pulled Lyle as close to him as he could.

  The little boy had little or no inherent fear of Indians like Josiah had at his age—and beyond.

  Any Indian, Comanche or otherwise, that might have been seen in Austin was either a “friendly” or a half-breed, both anxious to fit in and not be noticed. Hostilities with Indians occurred in the outlying communities, and usually all that made it into the city was the news of an attack, or tall tales, perpetrated by liars and men wanting to make more of themselves than they really were.

  When Josiah was a boy, especially in East Texas, the tales of the abduction of Cynthia Ann Parker were fresh, used to control a child and instill fear. Josiah had not told Lyle those stories, or of the time in his own life when he’d had a face-to-face confrontation with a Comanche in the woods, was knocked unconscious, and lost his father’s favored long gun to the savage.

  Encouraging a healthy fear in Lyle was not something Josiah had thought about until that very moment, when he locked gazes with Big Shirt, who was staring directly at the boy.

  “Get over here,” Josiah said to Scrap, ordering him out of the middle of the street.

  “Why?”

  “What makes you think you want to be part of this?”

  “I’m a Ranger, ain’t I?”

  “At the moment,” Josiah said, a familiar unwavering tone in his voice that he used when he was in charge.

  Scrap stared at Josiah, then kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Dang it.” He walked over to Josiah, who was about a foot out from the crowd. Scrap knew the tone by now.

  “This is going to be big trouble, mark my word,” Josiah said. “You don’t want to be associated with Donley and his antics.”

  Scrap shrugged and turned toward the approaching trio.

  Lyle looked up and tugged on Scrap’s sleeve. “Hola, Mr. Scrap.”

  “Can’t you speak English like a real Texan, Lyle?”

  Lyle nodded, then looked away.

  Josiah quickly intervened before Scrap could continue on. “Not here, Elliot.”

  Scrap started to say something, but he obviously thought better of it and turned around, his back to Josiah and Lyle, facing the crowd.

  Josiah pulled Lyle next to him and patted him on top of the head. Lyle smiled upward at Josiah, then stuck his tongue out at Scrap.

  CHAPTER 27

  B. D. Donley looked a lot taller than he really was sitting on top of his unkempt black stallion. He was a head shorter than Josiah and had thick black hair that was usually coated too heavily with pomade. His voice was scratchy and weak, his face pocked and bumpy like a dry creek bed, and his eyes were nearly black, too, always shifting around at one thing or another. Josiah hadn’t trusted the man from the first day they’d met, and that sentiment still held true.

  Donley brought the other two Rangers to a stop upon recognition of Josiah and Scrap. Karl Larson and Slim James were less known to Josiah, since his time with the Battalion had been varied from the start, but both men immediately offered a quick hello to Scrap Elliot.

  “Hey there, boys,” Scrap said. “Looks like the huntin’ was good.”

  Karl Larson was a big boulder of a man, his arms as big as anvils and his chest barrel-shaped. His clothes were covered with trail dust; even his bushy blond mustache looked to have bits of dirt in it. “Was a good ting you wasn’t with us, there, Scrap,” Larson said, easing back in his saddle, firing a load of tobacco spit back at Big Shirt.

  “Why’s that?” Scrap asked.

  Slim James chimed in before Larson could answer. “’Cause you and Donley would’ve had a brawl about whether to bring the Comanch back alive.” Slim was true to his name, tall and lanky, arms about as thick as broomsticks, but like Scrap, he had a gift with horses. The two of them raced whenever the opportunity to play showed itself back at the Ranger camp.

  “Ain’t no doubt about that,” Scrap said.

  Big Shirt fell to his knees, offering nothing but a sigh of exhaustion and a muted groan of pain.

  “Good to see you made it back to Austin, Wolfe,” Donley said, dancing his horse forward a bit, tossing a glare over his shoulder that could only mean one thing: for the two Rangers to shut their mouths. His teeth were crooked and tobacco brown. “I surely thought them folks from Comanche would track you down and hang you with your toes to the ground like they did John Wesley Hardin’s kin.”

  Josiah could feel every eye of Austin burning into his neck. The crowd across the way was just as thick as the one he’d pushed through to get to the street. It was amazing how silent the crowd was—they were listening to every word spoken. Somewhere, a crow cawed in the distance.

  “I did nothing wrong,” Josiah said. His voice was even and his gaze hard. He had no desire to look away from Donley’s snickering grin and accusatory glare. He would just as soon knock the man from his horse, but he restrained himself for his own sake, and Lyle’s.

  “Killed a deputy from what I understand. You’ll have to account for that, Wolfe.”

  “I’m aware of my deeds, Donley, and their cause. Captain Feders saw fit to send me back to Austin, and you out to capture or kill Liam O’Reilly. Tell me the Irishman’s dead and buried and we haven’t much more to talk about.”

  Donley shook his head no. “I have only the Comanch here to show for my troubles—and to prove that the savages still intend to bestow fear upon us all. Do you hear that, fine citizens?” he yelled, doffing his hat in a wave, raising his butt up off the saddle, nearly standing up. “Let loose, this savage will slit your throat, steal your scalp, and eat your kidneys for dinner.” He licked his lips.

  The crowd recoiled.

  Donley was enjoying himself, and Josiah was certain that the Ranger was up to something—something no good, since he was making such a show of Big Shirt’s presence.

  There was an audible gasp from the crowd. A symphony of feet rustled backwards behind Josiah.

  “That’s enough, Donley. You’ve riled these fine people enough. What is your intention?” Josiah asked.

  “I aim to speak directly to Governor Coke himself.”

  “On Feders’s orders, or your own accord?”

  “On accord of all the Rangers,” Donley said, puffing his chest.

  Josiah held his doubt tight in his throat, only allowing it to escape as a deep baritone groan. He was sure there was more to the man’s ploy than making a case for all of the Rangers to retain their status and pay, but he had no choice but to take the man’s word and let things play out as
they would.

  “Come with us, and see for yourself, Wolfe. Or are you too busy playing wet nurse instead of acting like a Ranger?”

  Josiah’s doubt fell away as anger flashed up his spine. “Watch yourself, man.”

  Donley smirked then said, “Come on, fellas, the governor’s waiting. He surely knows we’re coming by now.”

  Both Larson and James nodded. They seemed fully in line with Donley’s intent, sitting up straight in their saddles, ready to follow.

  They started to move away slowly, Donley finally breaking eye contact with Josiah.

  Josiah stepped back, his own intention clear: that he wasn’t going to join in on Donley’s game. There was no way Josiah was going to bust into the capitol with a Comanche in tow. He had enough trouble to consider.

  Larson slowed and spoke directly to Scrap. “What about you, Elliot? Comin’ along?”

  Scrap glanced over at Josiah, trying to show no emotion one way or the other. “Nah, I think I’ll hang back.”

  “Suit yourself, but you’ll be missin’ a spectacle,” Larson said.

  “I’ve had my fair share of those, thanks,” Scrap answered.

  Josiah was relieved but said nothing. He would wait until the trio was out of earshot to tell Scrap he thought he’d made a wise decision.

  The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Josiah’s stomach did not fade as Donley pulled ahead. He still had to face Big Shirt.

  Big Shirt had heaved himself up off his knees once he realized that Donley was on the move again. It looked like the Indian had spent plenty of time facedown in the dirt as it was.

  “I’ll kill you, Josiah Wolfe,” Big Shirt scowled, “if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Josiah stood his ground, let his eyes and stance say everything that needed to be said: I know that, and I’ll be ready when the time comes. He slipped his hand down to his gun and let it rest softly on the grip.

  Lyle tucked himself behind Josiah’s legs, hanging on tightly to his pants. Now was not the time to discourage fear, and Josiah knew it.