Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (19 page)

His father had never taken a liking to whiskey, either, so Josiah supposed it was a family thing—maybe it didn't agree with them the way cabbage or milk disagreed with some people.

Life as a spy and Ranger seemed to be changing everything, and Josiah was growing accustomed to the taste of fire and ferment, though he still couldn't say he enjoyed it. Enough whiskey just eased certain parts of his mind to a quiet, or unrecognizable, place, made him forget for a brief moment that he still had responsibilities in the world, like a son waiting at home, growing up quickly without the presence of his father. That thought, missing out on Lyle's childhood, was harder to swallow most of the time than the burning whiskey. Add on the dizzying emotional torrent unleashed by the senseless death of Maria Villareal, and whiskey sure seemed like a quick cure for a haunting memory, even for a man like Josiah Wolfe.

He could still hear the woman's dying wish,
Tell Juan Carlos I have always loved him.
And that made him push harder to the bar, made him hunger for another drink of whiskey so he could rid himself of that ghostly voice.

 

 

The vacant stool faced toward the door, which was a good thing. Keeping an eye out for Scrap was not a priority, but never having his back to the door was. It was a mistake that he would not make, even in a nearly inebriated state. Josiah was also in direct sight of the barkeep and signaled his desire for another glass of whiskey as he settled onto the seat.

The barkeep nodded and, within a matter of seconds, produced the desired drink without asking how much, or what kind of whiskey.

Josiah had adjusted to the smoke in the large room and the loud noise, the laughter, and the ping and chink of the piano, which probably had metal taps installed on the keys, from the sound of things. It didn't matter; the louder the music the better as far as he was concerned. It was typical saloon fare—fast and wordless—the piano player an obvious professional who knew what he was doing.

The crowd in the saloon was a surprise so late, packed as it was, and through the week. Most men looked like cowboys, probably readying for a long ride north. Others were woollies—sheep men—fewer in number, wary of the cowboys, and all huddled together in a far corner, either keeping together by choice or maintaining their safety in numbers, much like the animals they served as guardians to.

The whiskey had taken its course and warmed Josiah from head to toe. As it was, he was sweating.

“Hey, there, brother, you look familiar,” the thin, balding man sitting next to Josiah said. “You ever get up Fort Worth way?”

“I've been through there.”

“We all been through there, brother. Have you spent any time there? Put your boots under the bed a time or two? Lived there, son, or just punched through?” A cigarette dangled from the man's lips. Scrap called them quirlies, and the man's cigarette smelled similar to what the boy hand-rolled and smoked, like a sheaf of useless weeds, all bound together and set afire.

“No, can't say that I have. That where you're heading?” Josiah asked.

The man drew hard on the cigarette, then exhaled, exposing a mouthful of yellow teeth. “What makes you think I'm heading anywhere?”

Josiah smirked. “We're all heading somewhere, brother,” he said, mocking the man's original tone.

The man flashed a cockeyed look at Josiah. Anger rippled across his thin face, then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a look of knowing in his beady eyes. He nodded. “I suppose we are. Or coming from some place else, like Corpus. That your story? You take a fight to them Mexicans who sought to invade that peaceful city on the bay?”

“Could be. I'm just looking for relief, I guess,” Josiah said.

“Well, it looks like all the doves are spoken for; you're gonna have a long wait if female comfort is what you're after, brother.”

“That's fine. I'll take companionship with my drink, if you don't mind.”

As with whiskey, Josiah had never taken a liking to rambling, searching out one woman and then on to the next. He understood Maria's claim of true love for Juan Carlos more than he could admit, but his one true love was dead, buried in the family plot on the little farm outside of Tyler. Now his temptation was to love again, whether it be Pearl Fikes, Billie Webb, or temporary female companionship. It wasn't like he'd never purchased time with a woman—his first time was like that, in the war. But that was different. That was a mountain to climb, a rite of passage. Now he was just lonely, unwilling to allow another woman to get close to him like he had Lily. At the very least, he could have his way with a dove, as the man had called the whores, and then leave. There would be no memory or requirement of emotion, the bill paid in full, left on the table after the deed was done. It was always an option for Josiah—but thinking about it was as far as he ever got these days.

The man shrugged off Josiah's comment. “Like I would care about your choice of companionship.”

“I suppose you wouldn't.”

The man motioned for the barkeep. “Two. One for me, and one for my new friend here.”

“That's not necessary,” Josiah said, but it was too late. Two whiskeys appeared in front of them, like they had been conjured in a magician's show.

“Too late now.” The man picked up his glass and downed the whiskey in one hungry gulp. For a thin man, it looked like he could hold his drink.

Josiah followed suit, the whiskey traveling easier into his gullet this time around, the warm buzz growing, and the numbness that he was seeking when he first arrived in the saloon slowly taking over, but taking over nonetheless.

The man reached down and tapped out the cigarette on the well-worn heel of his boot, then stuffed the remainder of it in a pouch he pulled from his pants pocket. “My name's Edgar Leatherby, by the way.”

Josiah nodded, extended his hand, and didn't miss a beat with his response. “Zeb. Zeb Teter. Nice to meet you, Edgar.” They shook hands cautiously, then Josiah returned to staring at the bottom of the empty glass in front of him. His ears were starting to ring.

“My friends call me Leathers. Used to be Father Leatherby, but that was a lifetime or two ago.”

“You don't look like a preacher man.”

“I'm not now. But I was once. I spent the best years of my life in the New Melleray Abbey in Iowa. Trappist monks. You know about them?”

Josiah shook his head no. “I don't know much about religion. Can't say I ever met a monk. Wouldn't know one if I saw one.”

“Perhaps you're better off,” Leathers said, motioning for another drink. He poked his index finger in the air, ordering just one drink this time around, leaving Josiah to buy his own—which he was not inclined to do, at the moment.

“What are you now?” Josiah asked.

“Just a drover, setting off north like most of these fellas. Working the trail, making money, still wandering, but still seeking, too. ‘For then are they monks, if they live by the work of their hands.' A Rule of St. Benedict. I guess I can't escape my past. How about you?”

“I've never been a monk,” Josiah laughed. For some reason he found his own response funny. It had been ages since he'd cracked a smile and let out a laugh. It was a foreign sound to his ears, and there was no question that the laugh was provoked by the amount of alcohol he'd drunk.

Leathers laughed, too. But it was a short laugh. His face grew serious faster than Josiah's. “Well, Zeb Teter, you never did answer my question about Fort Worth. You ever spend much time there? I swear I've seen you somewhere before, brother.”

Josiah shook his head no, again, and studied Leathers a little closer, looking to see if he looked familiar, too. He didn't like being called “brother” and was sure he would remember that if he'd met the man before.

Edgar Leatherby was as tall as Josiah, but thin as a hitching post. He smelled of tobacco and whiskey, and his clothes were worn, not quite rags but not store-bought and green with hard creases, either. A black felt hat lay on the bar. It looked like a surviving relic of the man's past life; a padre's hat to cover up his balding head. Josiah had seen men wearing the hats and black robes before, in and around the churches and missions of every town he had visited, but never paid them much attention, or wondered about the meaning or use of the attire.

“I grew up near Tyler,” Josiah said. “Spent all my life there until I left out for the war. Came home to it, then moved on to Austin not so long ago. Been on the trail since, but I get back to the capital from time to time. I'm not sure I'm cut of the cloth that will allow enjoyment of city life. Was up Fort Worth way nearly a year ago, but that was for the matter of a day. Not much more than that prior, maybe passing through a few years back, too. I think you must be mistaking me for somebody else.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Trading hides.”

Leathers chuckled, took the drink from the barkeep, downed it, then looked Josiah square in the eye and said, “You're a terrible liar, Zeb Teter.”

“Now, why would you go and say that?”

“I've known hide traders, been friends with them, and you don't have the fingers or the smell they did.”

“Ever cross your mind I was new at it?”

“No. It crossed my mind that you're saying you're something you're not.” Leathers put his hand on Josiah's shoulder and stared directly at him, a hard, penetrating look in his eyes. “It's all right, brother, you can be anything you want to be. I don't mind, but you're fooling yourself, not me.”

Something stirred deep in Josiah's stomach; rage quick to rise, an uncontrollable feeling that was as alien as the taste of salt air on his tongue and his belly full of whiskey. “My name is Zeb Teter. I am what I say I am. Now, take your damn hand off me.”

Just as Leathers retreated, taking his hand back, reacting to the strong tone in Josiah's voice, a chorus of anger and loud voices rose up behind the two men.

Josiah turned, cast a threatening glance toward the ex-monk, then saw the beginnings of a fight breaking out two tables beyond where they were sitting, nearly in the center of the saloon.

It was a faro table, and all four men were standing, hard and tense. Before Josiah could take another breath, a spunky young cowboy, outfitted in new and unused gear from head to toe, threw a punch. It landed squarely on the jaw of a man who could have passed as a banker but was probably a professional gambler, caught, or suspected of, taking the young cowboy's last dollar in a game that was likely crooked from the start. Another man, catching Josiah's eye, looked a lot like Miguel. But the fight began before Josiah could be sure that the man was who he thought he was—the Mexican disappeared in the crowd, looking over his shoulder warily at Josiah.

The piano music intensified. Chairs scooted. Tables toppled over. One swing turned into a dozen, and in the blink of an eye, the entire room had broken out into a fight among strangers and friends, a free-for-all that had just been waiting to happen.

Josiah blocked the first swing that came his way; surprisingly it was not from Leathers. The tall man had stepped in front of Josiah and taken on a cowboy who was aiming to use a bar stool as a weapon on the first person he came to. Leathers ducked, swung, and pummeled the man with two quick fists to the nose, followed by an uppercut to the chin and then a punch in the gut, sending the cowboy slithering to the floor. The bar stool tumbled to the ground.

The favor was not lost on Josiah, no matter the state he was in. Leathers, who had fast hands for a one-time monk, had saved him a hard beating with the stool, and that was duly noted. But saved for later, other than a nod, a direct look in the eye. The attack quickly sobered Josiah, and it came as a great surprise to him that he was fighting in tandem with Leathers, as they made their way toward the door.

Leathers batted down a flying bottle, and Josiah pummeled a man blocking their way. Luckily, at least at this point there had been no gunfire.

The saloon was loud with shouts, music, and a few screams. Most of the girls had scattered behind the bar or out the front door. The barkeep kept working as if it were a typical day, until a man slid across the bar, causing him to duck and drop to the floor. When he reappeared he had a Parker Brothers eight-gauge shotgun in his hand and a scowl on his face. No one heard the barkeep load the shotgun, but they heard the thunder boom and saw the plaster shower from the ceiling once he pulled the trigger. It was a one-storey building, and now there were holes in the roof. It didn't look like it was the first time the shotgun had been fired into the ceiling; darkness poked through into the brightly lit room in an odd, distant way.