Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (16 page)

Scrap Elliot made his way down the stairs, looking more like a cat caught with a canary in his mouth than a fellow spy glad to see his compatriot. “I figured I'd see your snarlin' face sooner or later,” Scrap said to Josiah.

Josiah didn't acknowledge Scrap. Instead, he watched the hangman carry the Mexican's head out of sight, leaving a trail of blood all of the way behind the gallows.

The woman who had fainted was lost in a crowd, her tightly laced boots the only part of her body showing. Someone, a man, yelled at the crowd to stand back and give the woman room to breathe, but no one moved.

“That was some spectacle,” Josiah answered, turning his attention to the young Ranger. “How'd you come to be in the thick of it?”

“Was right near the shootin' when the fight broke out.” Scrap looked down and kicked the sand with the toe of his well-worn boot.

The ocean was not far off, less than fifty feet, and now that the larger crowd, beyond the fainted woman, had begun to disperse, the sound of the waves lapping up to the shore made its way to Josiah's ears. He found no comfort in the persistent cadence of the crashing tide.

“And you just happened upon this Mexican and his fellow bandits, and you couldn't resist lettin' folks know you're a Texas Ranger.”

“Somethin' like that.” Scrap still hadn't looked Josiah in the eye.

Every muscle in Josiah's body was tight and tense. “Under no circumstance—”

“I know,” Scrap snapped, cutting off Josiah, mid-sentence. “Don't tell no one I'm a Ranger. I'm a spy, but heck, if somebody calls me by my real name, Robert Earl, I'd just walk on by. I don't answer to the name of Hank Sutton. I ain't Hank nobody, Wolfe. I'm me. People been callin' me Scrap so long I don't know nothin' else.”

“You took the assignment.” Josiah looked over his shoulder and watched the crowd part as the woman, and perhaps her husband, were guided away from the gallows. Several girls followed after the couple like they were maidservants or ladies in waiting, like the woman was a queen or something. The sight did not amuse Josiah. Decapitation was a horrible thing for a woman or a child to witness. Hangings of any kind where never pleasant, and Josiah was most certainly glad the spectacle of this night was coming to an end.

“I know I took it, but what else was I supposed to do? We lost our place in the company because of Feders and the budget cuts in the Frontier Battalion. McNelly didn't need us since he was off restin' up after endin' that feud in Dewitt County. I want to keep bein' a Ranger, Wolfe. Punchin' cattle ain't no life for me. I came here to keep what I had, to do what McNelly wanted, and with all the troubles goin' on in Austin 'cause of the killin', I thought it was the best place for me.”

Silence settled between the two men for a long minute. Josiah still carried the rank of sergeant, giving him authority over Scrap, but he was prone not to flaunt any kind of power. Still, he felt the boy needed to learn a solid lesson—that there were greater things than yourself, and by running your mouth, you put more at risk than you realized. Like other people's lives.

“That's no reason to tell somebody the truth. McNelly said to trust no one,” Josiah said. His tone was strict and cold, and he stared hard into Scrap's young, inexperienced eyes.

Scrap looked down again, nodded, then looked up. “What are we gonna do now? This is a new war, Wolfe, you know it. The Mexican banditti and the state of Texas are at full-out war, but no one seems to give a damn.”

“We need to get word to Austin and make our way back there as quickly as we can.”

Josiah looked up at the gallows. The priest had disappeared. The rope dangled in the slight breeze. A wagon pulled away from behind the structure, carrying the Mexican's body—and head—to its final resting place. Only the lawman remained, and he was glaring down at Scrap and Josiah with an odd, angry look on his face.

“Besides,” Josiah continued, “I don't think we're going to be safe here for very much longer.”

 

 

Josiah was glad to find Clipper where he'd left the horse, that he and the rest of the population hadn't been tricked by an eager, unsavory boy set on capitalizing on acting as a watchman over the horses. He'd seen it happen before.

Scrap's horse, a blue roan mare named Missy, was hitched in with a bunch of other horses, too.

“You got your gear with you?” Josiah asked.

“Yup, everything I own.”

“Good, let's go.” Josiah rounded to the left side of Clipper and easily mounted the Appaloosa.

“Where we goin'?”

“As far away from here as we can get. We need a company of men or more to handle this madness.”

Scrap shrugged, obviously realizing that he had no choice but to follow after Josiah. He was not as quick to saddle up on Missy, and in the time that it took the boy to settle in, the lawman who had been standing on the gallows appeared in front of both horses, with his boots firmly planted and his big rancher's hands solidly anchored on his hips.

“You men aren't going anywhere just yet,” the man said.

“Wolfe, this here is Sheriff John McLane,” Scrap said. “Sheriff, this is Josiah Wolfe, the other Ranger I was tellin' you about.”

McLane was of medium height, his face almost indiscernible because of the flickering light from the fire and the darkness of night fighting each other with a battle of shadows. But Josiah could see that the man had piercing eyes, and hands and feet that looked like they belonged on a bigger boned man.

“I'm not fond of having spies in my midst that don't make their presence known to me,” McLane said.

“Kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it, Sheriff?” Josiah made no move to dismount and introduce himself properly to McLane. He sat statue-like, staring down at the man with the same dissatisfaction and tension that he was receiving.

“There isn't a law that makes it necessary, just common decency,” McLane said. His voice was strong and carried on the breeze blowing in off the ocean. “Man's got a right to know what's going on in his town, at least set on from the outside world.”

“Well,” Josiah answered, “that's what we were trying to figure out. Looks like we both failed.”

“I'm none too happy about that.”

Scrap eased back on Missy, letting Josiah do all the talking.

“I suppose you aren't,” Josiah said.

McLane stepped closer to Clipper and lowered his voice. “Word's been sent up to Austin already if you're plannin' on doing such a thing. I've requested a company of Rangers. The whole Frontier Battalion would be more than appreciated since there's more than one of the men here pushing for their own militia. Minute groups they call them. I don't favor them. Revenge is an ugly business, and killing a man just because of the color of his skin or the accent on his tongue is no way to live. The Union war should have proven that to all men, but it is a dim memory, lost to those that didn't walk the battlefields. You look of age, Wolfe, you certainly must understand what I mean. The employment of blood is an uncertain business, the promise of bankruptcy almost a guarantee, wouldn't you say?”

Josiah nodded yes, but said nothing. His service to the state of Texas and the Confederacy was as much a nightmare as a memory. He did not carry his experience serving in the First Texas Brigade in an external, prideful way like some men did. There was no shame involved, and he was as proud as any man should be. He had been a ready volunteer at the start of the war—as much to please his ex-soldier father as for any other reason. But mostly Josiah wanted to leave the battles of the North and South, the politics and blood of it, behind him. Yet it seemed at every turn in his life that the War Between the States was not only a constant shadow but a motivator of men to hate, kill, and pull him further into the deeds of their own nightmares.

“So you have vigilante groups that can't be stopped, and raiders under Cortina's command clashing. No Mexican is safe in this town. Is that what you're saying, Sheriff?” Josiah asked.

“It is. A Mexican with a new saddle will be shot on sight. No questions asked. The governor has got to send a message to everyone involved. This isn't just a rancher's squabble or a hide-skinner's revolt. Richard King is demanding protection from the government for all of his acres and assets, and I'm asking for the same in kind. I know the flavor of war in the air, and this, sir, has a familiar taste,” Sheriff McLane said, spitting to the ground.

“I will send word right away to meet the request you have already sent, Sheriff McLane,” Josiah said. “I have a channel that'll promise results of some kind, though I can't speak to the arrival of the battalion anytime soon.”

He fidgeted with Clipper's reins, eager to get on with the ride. Concern about Juan Carlos returned to the forefront of his mind. Only now, Josiah was not just worried about Maria Villareal's fate, but that of his friend, too.

“Be gone then,” the sheriff said, calling out as Josiah turned Clipper and set the horse to run. “But if you come back, Wolfe, make damn sure I know it!”

Josiah didn't answer. He looked over his shoulder to see that Scrap was following him and headed straight for the saloon where Josiah had taken up residence upon arriving in Corpus Christi. The place where he had become—and left behind—the hide trader known as Zeb Teter.

Agusto, the barkeep, would be waiting for him and any news he had for Austin.

The fire was gone, but smoke was still rising off the timbers of the house that had burned earlier in the day. A steady breeze carried the acrid smell of destruction and loss in all directions. Josiah's nose stung.

The moon was fully in its place, high in the black sky, bright enough to swallow up any sight of stars close by and to create more shadows along the streets and alleyways than normal. It was eerily quiet on the way to the cantina. There was not an owl or any other night bird to be heard.

Josiah knew the threat of violence in Corpus Christi was not over by any means.

Every man in town was keeping his trigger finger warm and his gun cocked and ready for the next outbreak of violence or incursion by Cortina's banditos. Any sight of a Mexican, known or unknown, friend or not, would be enough reason to pull that trigger, no questions asked—Sheriff McLane had validated that notion.

A huge chunk of the population of Corpus Christi was now on the side of a war that was not of their choosing. But they would suffer the consequences nonetheless. The mechanisms of war never changed as far as Josiah was concerned. Innocents were dragged in the mud and into the line of fire.

The street was vacant. No music filled the air, no laughter or rowdy play of hardworking men blowing off steam after a long day spent laboring out in the bay, or on the trail moving cattle or sheep from one place to the next.

Riding up to Agusto's cantina was like tying up in a ghost town, a place devoid of any life due to disease or the bad draw by a railroad planner, taking the trains and all their commerce to another town.

Josiah had seen it happen to the small town where he grew up, just outside of Tyler. He knew all too well how the roll of dice affected the lives of the many and enriched the lives of the few. Corpus was not in danger of dying a slow, painful death because of a lack of money or a bad location—the economy was thriving due to the demand for cattle and wool. The citizens of Corpus were afraid, angry, and plum tired of being attacked, and that was a dangerous combination as far as Josiah was concerned.

Scrap dismounted first, his six-shooter, a Colt Army .45, a Peacemaker similar to Josiah's but newer, already out of his holster.

The boy had changed guns recently, since they had been in Corpus on spy duty, but Scrap had offered no reason about the switch from his old gun to the new one. Josiah smiled inwardly, happy that Scrap had chosen well.

“No need to be jumpy, Elliot.” Josiah slid off Clipper. He wore a swivel holster, had for as long as he could remember. He was always ready . . . or at least he thought he was. Scrap, on the other hand, had an itchy finger, always ready to shoot first and ask questions later—if then. Some formal military training would aid the boy, mature his anxiousness to shoot, but the experience was unlikely, at least on a volunteer basis. Scrap was dead set on staying a Texas Ranger, and for the most part, Josiah couldn't blame him.

He grabbed Scrap's shoulder gently and stopped him from walking inside the dark saloon. “These folks know me as Zeb Teter. I'd like to keep it that way,” Josiah said, his voice hushed.

“Don't look like nobody's in for a round tonight, Wolfe, so it won't matter much what I call you, will it?”