The Gila Wars (19 page)

CHAPTER 34

The afternoon sky had burned white. It was like the ocean
had sucked all of the blue out of it. The only sound reaching the trio was the waves, crashing into the land, the tide rising, pushing the steamer precariously close to the shore.

It was not the sight of the boat coming to shore that had caused them to turn back; what happened to the vessel was of little concern to them. If it crashed on the rocks and broke apart, it would be viewed as a good thing, voiding the opportunity for the boat to be used again by Cortina, or his men, to transport anything for their cause. What did concern them, though, was the bloodied man standing at the bow of the steamer, waving a white flag, obviously unable to flee, to right the ship and save it, or himself.

Scrap had stopped Missy on the ridge, looking down to the ocean. Josiah knew what the boy was thinking, could see his trigger finger twitching—Scrap wanted to ignore the white flag and shoot the man outright.

“I'd take a deep breath if I were you, Elliot.” Josiah eased Clipper alongside Scrap. Juan Carlos gave way to Josiah and held back. He bore no expression on his face, and kept his attention focused on the man on the boat.

“One shot, Wolfe. It'd be over quick,” Scrap said.

“You going to explain that to the captain?”

Scrap glared at Josiah out of the corner of his eye. “Who says I'd have to?”

“The man is surrendering.”

“Tell me the truth. You ain't never kilt a man who was offering himself up as a prisoner?”

Josiah looked away. “It was different in the war.”

“This is a war, too,” Scrap said with clenched teeth. “Ain't no damn different. If that man there had the opportunity to kill me right now, he would, and you know it. Fact is, he don't have that opportunity. Should've thought of that when he hooked himself up with the likes of Cortina.”

“You're just angry because you made a stand to McNelly, proclaiming all of the men on that boat were dead, victims of your excellent shooting skills. And it's not true. Kind of makes you look bad, if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you.” The veins in Scrap's neck and forehead pulsed as his face turned red. “You ain't gonna let me shoot him, are you,
Sergeant
Wolfe?”

The emphasis Scrap put on the word “Sergeant” made him sound like a little boy about to throw a fit because he didn't get what he wanted. Josiah was very familiar with the attitude since he had a toddler son, but he didn't flinch. “You shoot if you have to. Not until.”

“Yes, sir.”

Juan Carlos eased up alongside Josiah. “Here, señor, this may help.” He handed Josiah a brass telescope much like an officer would have used in the War Between the States.

Josiah gladly accepted the telescope and looked through it with one eye cocked and closed.

The man on the boat was still swinging a white rag. There was blood on his shirt, and no sign of any weapons. He was dark-skinned and could have been a Mexican or Cuban, it was hard to tell.

Josiah was concerned the surrender was a ploy, a trick. He'd seen it happen more than once when he was fighting the Yankees. The enemy would lure their opponents to them under the guise of injury, or willingness to give up the fight, only to open fire from which there was no escape. It was an age-old trick, but still effective to the man who led with his emotions instead of his brain.

From what Josiah could see, there was no other movement on the steamer. He held the telescope as steady as he could. The rising tide was pushing the boat toward land quickly, on high, aggressive, waves. It would only be a matter of minutes before it washed ashore.

Josiah pulled his sight back from the man and the deck of the boat and slowly scanned the grasses for any kind of movement or shadows of men hiding. He saw nothing. Just the wind dancing across the top of the grass like before, dancing naturally from gusts off the water.

Satisfied, he pulled the telescope from his eye. “Looks clear, but that doesn't mean it is. However we proceed, we need to be cautious. We're right in the middle of a desperate hour for Cortina's men.”

The shooting in the distance had died down; it was infrequent now. There was no sign of the herd of longhorns or the
vaqueros
charged to get them on board the steamer. If there was any kind of battle, or hand fighting, going on, it was out of sight, and out of earshot.

It was almost like the three of them had been abandoned. And with the exception of the dead Mexicans littered on the beach, there was no sign or indication that any kind of fight had ever taken place at all.

“The captain ordered us to circle around and sweep for strays or snipers,” Josiah said. “We need to take this man in alive, if we can. He sees us, knows we're here. Fire a warning shot, Elliot. Crack the wood just at his feet to show him we're serious.”

“Just the wood?”

“Don't miss. That's an order.”

Scrap sighed, settled the butt of his Spencer rifle to his shoulder, and pulled the trigger, hitting exactly where Josiah had told him to.

The man on board the steamer jumped and started yelling louder. He danced wildly, waving the white rag even more frantically than before. He was barely able to hang on as the boat pitched and yawed heavily to the starboard side. A paddle on the rear wheel snapped off and crashed into another one, causing the entire mechanism to shatter. The steamer groaned and ground ashore, coming to a stop—luckily, all in one piece, causing the man to stop, hang on, and not tumble over the railing.

Josiah didn't move, just watched the crash with interest. “Scrap, you stay up here and cover us.”

“You think that's necessary?”

“Might not be, but I'd sure hate to regret not giving that order.”

“Suit yourself.” Scrap lowered his Spencer from his shoulder and pointed it to the ground, allowing the weapon to be raised and fired on short notice.

CHAPTER 35

“Ease on down here. Once you get on the ground, put
your hands behind your head, and you won't get hurt,” Josiah said, with the man on the boat's head squarely within his aim.

Juan Carlos fought to hold his old horse steady a few feet from the water. The waves seemed to make it nervous. He held a Colt Open Top as best he could. The Open Top was a predecessor to the Colt Single-Action Army, the Peacemaker. It fired .44 rimfire cartridges, and from what Josiah had seen in the past, Juan Carlos was a decent shot. The outdated weapon was nothing to be concerned about. But the advantage always fell to the newer model Colts, like the Peacemaker Josiah carried, and to the man with a steady horse and a steady hand. The hair on the back of Josiah's neck was on end, and he was alert to every sound and movement around him.

The man on the boat nodded, then started to climb over the rail.

“Slow now,” Josiah commanded. “I'm in no mood for any tricks.” He tilted his head back to the ridge without taking his eyes off the man. “And that fella up there? He's got a real itchy finger. He's done killed a few of your men today, and my guess is, he isn't ready to quit anytime soon.
Comprende?
”

Josiah wasn't sure if the man spoke, or understood, English. He assumed he didn't. Speaking Mexican was uncommon for Josiah, and it felt odd rolling off his tongue. He hoped the man didn't think he was fluent in the language, but if that were the case, Juan Carlos could step in. That was one of the reasons Josiah had the Mexican come along with him instead of ordering him to stay with Scrap.

“
Sí
, I understand,” the man said. He climbed down from the bow of the steamer gingerly, since the hull was still rocking, still being pushed forward by the unrelenting force of the waves. As soon as his boots hit the ground, the man pasted his hands to the back of his head. “Please don't shoot, I am only a lowly deckhand. I am no thief or outlaw. I know nothing of these troubles I have found myself in. I just signed up for the journey to serve on the boat.”

Josiah was relieved the man spoke the Anglo tongue as well as he did.

“
No se acueste
,” Juan Carlos said to the man. His voice and eyes were steel-hard and direct as an executioner's.

Josiah had no clue what Juan Carlos said, but he offered the same attitude, the same glare. The man was a fool not to take either of them seriously.

“Do not lie,” Juan Carlos interpreted, glancing quickly at Josiah with a nod. “You are a dead man if you do.
No habrá redención.
”

Not knowing the language was a weakness for Josiah. Especially when he was home, in the midst of Lyle and Ophelia.

Ophelia was teaching Lyle the language, and at the age of four, the boy could hold a conversation in Mexican in a way Josiah could not. There was no use protesting the idea. Josiah saw the advantages that Lyle would have over him as an adult. The world was changing. Honest contact with Mexicans, regardless of the current situation, was becoming more frequent. Prejudice still existed. Josiah imagined it always would, even as far as he was concerned to a degree, but life would be a lot different in the future for his son than it was for him. He pushed away the thought of Lyle as quickly as it came into his mind. There was no place for regret on the battlefield.

The deckhand glared at Juan Carlos. “Lying would be a foolish thing to do with so many guns pointed at me, wouldn't it,
amigo
? And my redemption is none of your concern. Just because you have a gun on me does not mean you own me, or my soul. Our Father blesses me.”

“As you wish,
mi amigo
,” Juan Carlos said.

Josiah shifted his weight in the saddle a little nervously. “Friends don't normally point guns at each other.”

Juan Carlos backed his horse away from the crashing waves so there was no water touching its hooves, and it settled down immediately, allowing him to steady the Open Top Colt. “Are you the last man on board?”

“
Sí
, the captain is dead. Killed in the volley of gunshots. We were a short crew. There were to be
vaqueros
along for the return once the
vacas
were loaded and we were on the way back to Cuba.”

A smile winced across Josiah's face and disappeared as suddenly as it appeared. “That'll make Scrap happy.”

“How do I know that you are telling me the truth?” Juan Carlos asked. “How do I know that there are not more men hiding in the captain's quarters?”

“You don't. You must trust what I say, or you can kill me, it is up to you. I prefer to live, as I am sure you do, too.”

“I do not wish to see another dead man on this day,” Juan Carlos said. “Enough men have lost their lives for Cortina and his simple
codicia
.”

The deckhand held a steady gaze, glaring at Juan Carlos. “There is more than greed to every war. There is power and influence. Cortina wishes to create a legend for his own reflection to live in. Every general is the same, no matter the country.”

Juan Carlos nodded, the look in his eyes stern. Every wrinkle on his face seemed to be as creased as a starched shirtsleeve. “I'm in no need of your wisdom or opinions.”

“Then you will have to trust me,” the deckhand said. “Allow me to live. I mean no one any harm. I just wish to return home to my
mujer
and my
niños
.”

Juan Carlos exhaled deeply. “I cannot promise you that will happen anytime soon. Your fate will be in Captain McNelly's hands. You are his prisoner now. Not ours.”

“A prisoner of
Tejas
?”

“
Sí
, a prisoner of the Texas Rangers.”

“Then I am a dead man.” The deckhand genuflected, made a cross on his chest, from his head to his sternum with blazing speed.

“Not if you do as you are told,” Juan Carlos said.

Satisfied, Josiah loosened the reins in his hand and backed Clipper up about five feet so that he and Juan Carlos's horse were nose to nose. “Come on then. We best get started. It's a long walk to the camp.”

Juan Carlos put his hand out to the right, stopping Josiah. He shook his head. “I do not trust this
hombre
.”

It was nearly a whisper, but serious enough for Josiah to abide by the implication. He lowered his hand and looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure that Scrap was still in place, still had the deckhand in his sights. The boy hadn't moved. Scrap looked like a statue standing on the hill, the sun shining on him like he was in the middle of a spotlight. The only shadows on the ground came from the returning vultures, floating over the bodies left from the fight, with the smell of death and opportunity surely swirling in their nostrils like intoxicating nectar.

Before Josiah could issue an order, Juan Carlos slipped off his horse. “You make one false move,
amigo
, and I will blow your head off.” He had the Open Top pointed directly at the deckhand's forehead.

The man did not react. Just stood solemnly with his hands to his sides.

Josiah had the man squarely in the sight of his Winchester, too. The only sounds he could hear above his beating heart were the crashing of the waves and the agitation and crunch of the sand against the bottom of Juan Carlos's shoes as he walked slowly to the man.

The old Mexican's intent was to search the deckhand's body for a hidden weapon of any kind.

There was hardly ever a need to command a man like Juan Carlos. His instincts were as sharp and alert as any solider's Josiah had ever known, no matter his age or implication of physical weakness.

Juan Carlos had ridden with the Rangers as long as any man Josiah knew of, in all of their various forms through their history, never serving in an open or equal capacity, but serving nonetheless. It was when his half brother, Captain Hiram Fikes, was still alive that Juan Carlos rode even more clearly next to the men who served the state of Texas in one capacity or another.

To say Juan Carlos was well trained is an understatement. He was a natural fighter, a ghostlike spy, a man comfortable with the knowledge that war never ends; it is ongoing no matter what it is called, from one battle to the next, raging through some years stronger than others, for the cause of new borders, liberty, freedom . . . or simple greed.

Juan Carlos stopped directly in front of the deckhand.

A sudden series of gunshots erupted in the distance.
Ping, ping, ping.
Not thunder. Not lightning. Just three shots, come and gone. Loud enough, close enough, though out of sight, to distract Juan Carlos for more than a long second.

But the long second of distraction was all the deckhand needed.

In one swift motion, he pulled out a hidden Bowie knife from inside the waist of his trousers and thrust it with lightning speed directly into Juan Carlos's chest.