The Gila Wars (13 page)

CHAPTER 22

Dismissed, Josiah was the first man to leave the tent. He
hesitated for a long second, concerned about Garcia—but quickly decided that if he couldn't trust Leander McNelly and Clement Robinson with the man's care and safety, then he didn't belong in the Ranger camp in the first place.

He took the order that they were riding at first light for what it was. Garcia seemed resigned to his fate, too. If there was more to tell, then it was not for Josiah to hear. The Mexican was a prisoner now—and safe from Scrap's rage.

The scouting assignment had been successfully completed, even though it had come at a higher cost than Josiah would have ever dreamed.

He pushed through the tent flap and found himself the direct focus of almost every man in the company. They had not moved since he and Scrap arrived. Every man in the camp looked anxious to know about the prisoner and what was next for them all. Not a one of them seemed to share Josiah's dread of battle.

The perfectly formed arch around the entrance of the tent was still intact. There were familiar eyes, and some not so familiar, all tinged with a demand for answers.

To Josiah's relief, someone had had the decency to see Clipper to the horse line. The Appaloosa had his head focused on a mound of fresh hay and was tied comfortably in among all of the other Rangers' horses.

Satisfied that his horse was cared for, Josiah scanned the crowd quickly, ignoring the desire of the men in the company to know the outcome of the meeting. It was not Josiah's place to tell them of McNelly's plans. Once he saw that Scrap was nowhere to be seen, he made his way silently through the crowd.

Several men tried to stop Josiah, hoping to know what was afoot. Josiah just dropped his head and made his way up the hill, as far away from the captain's tent as possible, as quickly as he could. Sergeant or no sergeant, he wasn't about to break ranks with McNelly. The captain still had plans and decisions to make.

Josiah returned alone to the fire where he'd taken up residence before leaving for Arroyo. No one had bothered to follow him once they figured out his lips were going to remain shut tight.

The spot looked the same, only it was vacant now since the men who had shared the fire remained waiting in front of McNelly's tent for their orders.

Josiah was relieved, glad for the moment alone. His body ached, his stomach begged for food, and his wounds, still fresh and sore, reminded him how much had changed since he'd left the Ranger camp.

It was obvious that nothing had changed much for the other men who had remained behind in camp. They had been stuck waiting. Waiting for whatever was next. It was a hard fact of life for the soldiering kind. Hurry up and wait. Be ready at a moment's notice to fight to the death. Josiah would have traded places with them if he could have, not gone on the scouting trip at all. Save for the time with Francesca—but now even that encounter was looking to be a mistake. His shoulders had been heavy with regret from the moment he'd left the cantina. Still, he was glad to be back in camp.

“What the hell did you do that for, Wolfe?” Scrap walked out of the shadows from behind a boulder half the size of a house. He still wore his gun belt, the holsters unsnapped, two ivory-handled Peacemakers within reach.

Josiah jumped in his skin but tried not to show Scrap that he'd startled him. “I was just doing my duty.”

“Protectin' a greaser?”

“Garcia's a man with a family just like us.”

“He's the damn enemy, that's what he is. Woulda slit your throat, too, if he'd had half a chance.” Scrap stopped about ten feet from Josiah, his eyes black with anger and his body stiff as a board.

“Really, Elliot, what are you going to do? Shoot me? Or do you want to fight me? Go at me with your fists, like you did with Garcia?” Josiah's tone was easy, without stress or fear. He didn't move from his spot, either. He wore a swivel rig, allowing his own Peacemaker to always be at the ready, but he didn't think of it as a weapon that would be needed for this fight. He wasn't afraid of Scrap Elliot now, and he never had been.
Sometimes
, Josiah thought,
all the boy really needed was a good ass-whippin'
. But it wasn't his place to deliver it, no matter how much he wanted to.

Scrap didn't seem to know how to respond to Josiah's easiness.

“Come on now,” Josiah said, “get it over with. There's no one about. I won't pull rank on you, or hold you accountable to the captain.” Josiah threw his hands up in the air, in offering. “You think punching at me will solve your problems, you just come right on and have at it.”

Scrap squeezed his fists tight.

The fire burned brightly between them. A log had obviously been thrown on it when they arrived in camp, and it allowed Josiah to see Scrap's rage. The boy's face was as red as the embers in the bottom of the pit, and sweat had started to bead on his lip. It wasn't the first time Josiah had seen Scrap mad as a rabid skunk. What concerned him was the fact that Scrap seemed to always be angry, and unpredictable, instead of just every once in a while.

“I ain't gonna shoot you, Wolfe.”

“Well, that's good news.” A quick burst of pain throbbed in Josiah's shoulder. He was weak but couldn't show it, couldn't respond to the pain. He wasn't sure what Scrap was capable of, at least not at the moment.

“You made me look like a danged fool.”

Josiah shrugged. “You didn't need my help with that.” He stepped toward Scrap. “Look, why don't you sit down and take a load off. It's been a long couple of days for us both. I'll rustle us up some beans and coffee. The last thing I want to do is fight with you, or anybody else for that matter. Fighting will come soon enough for us all.”

“Tomorrow.”

“First light. But you keep that to yourself, at least till McNelly gives his orders and makes his assignments.”

“Maybe I won't go.”

“That's always your choice.”

“I suppose it is.” Scrap exhaled and looked up at the sky. “Why is it I never get my chance to be the one that gets noticed for doin' brave things? I can't never win. I'm never gonna be nothin' but what I am.”

“You ever think maybe you try just a little too hard?”

Scrap shook his head. “I don't think I try hard enough.”

There was a tone in Scrap's voice that almost allowed Josiah to take pity on the boy. Almost. “Maybe you ought to think a little before you act on a thought that passes through that thick head of yours. You might just get yourself, or someone else, hurt one of these days if you don't start doing that pretty soon.”

CHAPTER 23

The night passed quicker than Josiah had hoped it would.
Racked with pain, along with his growing fear that the infection was returning, he had found sleep difficult to come by. When he did manage to drift off, uncomfortable and uncertain dreams invaded Josiah's mind.

He couldn't quite call the dreams nightmares, because he couldn't remember them clearly. They seemed to be made up of a collection of bad memories, of places he wished he'd never been, and of people he wished he would've never met—or lost. Every waking and sleeping moment felt like it had been touched by regret, and that emotion seemed to be as much an infection as the green pus that had seeped out of his wound in Arroyo. There was no one to tend to him now like there had been when he was shot, no soft comforting hand, or the presence of someone watching over him, making sure he was all right, that he would live to see another day. Juan Carlos and Francesca were gone.

When he had been awake during the night, tossing and turning on the hard ground, his thoughts danced to his living past, and to other nights before battle. They all had been a mix of fear, anxiety, happiness, and joy. Sometimes, it seemed there was no other time Josiah had felt more alive than when he was pulling a Springfield bayonet out of a Yankee's belly, or pulling the trigger of a Henry rifle with certainty and confidence of his aim. He was good at killing, and at surviving. Sometimes too good.

Memories of the war seemed to run all together.

Day after day was a shower in blood. Screams became the music of life. It was never easy killing another man. But it was battle. It was kill or be killed. Just like now. Just like the day that waited for him. He was sure of it, could feel it in his bones and deep in his chest. Just the memory of killing sped up the beat of his heart.

Cortina's men would show no regard for his life, any more than he would for theirs. The attack in Adolfo's cantina was proof of that. Two men had met their end only because they had chosen the wrong allegiance, had decided to die for a cattle thief instead of living by the laws of the great state of Texas. Josiah felt little grief over the death of the two men. They had made their choices, had pulled their guns before any words of peace could be offered.

Still, Josiah wondered if the fighting in his life would ever end. If killing and all of the blood and battles would ever become too much for him. It surprised him that he even thought of quitting, of laying down his guns and walking away from the fight. He wondered if it were even possible.

Until a few days ago, the possibility of leading a normal life in Austin had seemed like a true hope for his future, no matter how distant that future really was. There would come a time when it would be right to leave the Rangers, maybe even remarry and start a new family.

Spending every day with Lyle would be a nice change for him, even though he would have to figure out exactly what it meant to be a full-time father. Ofelia would most likely tire of having him underfoot, but she would adjust. Josiah knew he took the Mexican woman for granted, but how could he not? She loved Lyle like he was her own flesh and blood, and she had been there since the very beginning, when there had been no choice but to cut the boy out of his dead mother's belly—Lily had died from the fevers before she could give birth to the boy.

And then there was Pearl.

Josiah had thought that they could work through their time apart, that his time with the Rangers wouldn't conflict with their courting. Maybe things would have been different if he would have stayed in Austin and found another way to make a living. But being one of Sheriff Rory Farnsworth's deputies held little attraction to him. There was little else, outside of being a lawman of one kind or another, that Josiah felt qualified for.

Working as a deputy in the sheriff's department was far more political than being a Ranger, considering it was an elected office and constantly in turmoil, and far more than he ever wanted to deal with. He had been an appointed marshal once, briefly in his earlier life, and that was enough for him. It seemed like he was always beholden to someone on the town board, or some businessman, for one thing or another. He couldn't imagine the politics of a big city like Austin, especially considering all that had happened recently—the sheriff's banker father having recently been accused of murder.

He could follow Pearl's example, if it came to that. Her life had changed dramatically. Once, she was the belle of the ball, a debutante—until her father was killed and her mother went crazy, mad as a stepped-on rattlesnake, and lost the family home. Pearl, with the help of Juan Carlos, had picked herself up and gotten back on her feet. She said she never again wanted to be dependent on anyone else in her life.

Josiah respected her grit, her ambition, but he saw very little opportunity for himself other than riding with the Rangers. He was too old to go to some school to become something he didn't know anything about.

Starting over held little appeal to him. The move to Austin from Seerville had been enough of a change, one he wasn't sure he was quite used to just yet the way it was. He still missed the comfort and familiarity of the piney woods of East Texas and preferred them over the bustling and constantly changing city.

The thought of Juan Carlos had cost him even more sleep.

Josiah feared that he had lost the man as his friend, because the Mexican knew nothing of Pearl's letter. He hoped he would have a chance to explain himself to Juan Carlos at some point soon, but there was no guarantee that Josiah would ever see the man again. Especially if their friendship
had
ended.

Regret was most definitely dangerous. A poison that would not go away, no matter how much Josiah tossed and turned.

Finally, just before dawn, before the first light broke over the horizon, Josiah pulled himself up off the ground and put a fresh pot of Arbuckle's on the fire.

The other boys around the fire were still sleeping, mostly buried under their blankets. A cloudless sky had allowed the air to turn cool even though it was early summer. It was like that sometimes, so cold at night that a man thought it could turn up and snow. That surely would have been a sight and most certainly would have started the day on a much different foot than anyone expected.

The weather, though, was of little concern. It would most likely be a clear, hot day—adding sweat and discomfort to the blood and violence that was almost a given.

Josiah squatted before the fire, his eyes focused on the coffeepot, the blue glaze mostly blackened from years of daily use. He knew better than to try and hang on to the dreams and nightmares, if that's what they were. Wrestling with his past, angels and demons, offered little aid or comfort for the coming battle.

All he could hope for was to survive to fight another day, and return home as soon as he could . . . all in one piece.