Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (17 page)

“It's not a request. These are cautious people, and from what Sheriff McLane told us, they have a right to be.”

Scrap scowled at Josiah. “Whatever you say, Sergeant Zeb.”

Josiah pushed by Scrap and eased inside the saloon, his own Peacemaker drawn and in hand, at the ready.

Moonlight lit the way into the saloon, but pure darkness took over about three feet inside. Josiah stopped to let his eyes adjust. Scrap bumped into him.

“Pay attention, you fool,” Josiah said as quietly as he could through gritted teeth.

Scrap exhaled loudly but didn't say anything.

It only took a second for Josiah to start making out shapes in the darkness: chairs overturned, tables strewn about in chaos, not organized like they usually were every day. The smell of whiskey was thick, like a barrel had been opened and spilled. Beyond all that, Josiah was certain that he saw a body lying on the floor just beyond the bar, facedown.

Without saying a word, Josiah rushed over to the body and found that his greatest fear had quickly proven true. It was Agusto, his skin cold as ice, his head lying in a pool of blood that looked shiny black in the darkness.

“Damn, Wolfe, looks like the battle came inside,” Scrap said.

Josiah closed the Mexican barkeep's eyes. “In one way or another.”

“Was he your contact?”

Josiah nodded. “Could have been killed for that if somebody found out.”

“Seems to me there's a number of reasons for him to be dead,” Scrap said, looking over his shoulder, out into the dark street. “He been there for a while? Or you think someone is still around.”

“He's not stiff yet. Been a little while, but not long,” Josiah said.

“Don't mean nobody's upstairs.”

Josiah stood up. “We're not going to find out. This isn't our fight. We need to go.” He was out the door before the boy could say another word or raise a question why Josiah was in such a hurry and willing to leave a man lying in his own blood.

There was no question that Josiah was concerned about the fate of another man there, the guitar player, Miguel, who had filled his head with doubt about McNelly's cause to use him as a spy . . . but now was not the time to track the man down. For all Josiah knew, Miguel was dead, too. Shot after they had left each other's company.

It didn't matter to Josiah if Scrap followed him or not; all he could think about was Juan Carlos, whether he was safe, or if he had already suffered the same fate as Agusto.

 

 

The shacks came into sight only because of the brightness of the moon and the lack of any thick clouds in the night sky. Any fires that had been used for cooking during the day had long since withered away into orange beds of hot embers. High tide was pushing out, and the roll of waves was softer, gentler, a sound Josiah wasn't sure he could ever get used to. The cadence of waves was foreign to him, the ticktock of it, hypnotic and annoying at the same time because he could not ignore it.

Scrap had indeed followed Josiah out of the saloon and through the streets of Corpus, the distance between them far enough not to afford any contact.

The last thing Josiah wanted to deal with was Scrap Elliot's dislike and distrust of Juan Carlos, so he had pushed Clipper as hard as he could. It would come soon enough, once Scrap caught sight of the old Mexican.

There was no question that Scrap carried his own saddlebag full of prejudices. His lack of respect for Mexicans was as obvious as the new Peacemaker on his hip. But there was something about Juan Carlos in particular that plagued Scrap, caused him to react harsher even than he did around other Mexicans.

Scrap knew that Juan Carlos was Captain Hiram Fikes's half brother and a half uncle to Pearl, who Scrap seemed to like well enough, but none of those relations seemed to matter to the boy, or to deter his anger. Whatever the problem, Josiah didn't care as long as it didn't affect him too much.

The last time Scrap had seen Juan Carlos was after the Mexican had been shot outside of Fort Clark and left to recover. He had made no mention of Juan Carlos since.

Josiah brought Clipper to a halting stop, sand flying forward as the big Appaloosa snorted and turned, avoiding any debris that might fly into his eyes.

“Juan Carlos,” Josiah called out, as he slid off the horse, his gun out of the holster in a flash.

Scrap came to a stop just behind Clipper. Both horses were accustomed to each other, seemed to be on friendlier terms than their riders. Missy, the roan mare, nudged Clipper immediately, as if to say hello.

“So that's what this is about,” Scrap said, dismounting. “I should've figured as much—what with you takin' out of that cantina like lightnin' had struck your forehead, Wolfe.”

Josiah ignored Scrap and headed for the shack where Maria Villareal had been taken. He had no idea what time of the night it was, only that it was late. It didn't matter to him at the moment whether he woke up the entire camp or not.

The door opened, and Juan Carlos pushed outside, a rifle in his hands. “You need to leave, Señor Wolfe.” The Mexican's face was drawn tight, his brown leathery skin almost completely free of wrinkles. Veins were protruding on his forehead, and even from a distance, Josiah was almost certain the man's eyes were red, like he'd been crying.

Josiah stopped and stared at Juan Carlos. The rifle was cradled in his arms, but the man had not dropped the weapon or lowered its aim at Josiah upon recognizing him. Nor had the anger on his face vanished, as Josiah suspected it would.

“I will repeat myself only one more time, señor. You need to leave.”

“You are not safe here, Juan Carlos,” Josiah said. “We all need to leave as soon as we can . . . while the moon offers us passage into the night.”

“I am not going anywhere, now or ever.”

“You heard him, Wolfe,” Scrap said. “He ain't leavin', now let's get out of here before one of them minute groups shows up and starts a gunfight we don't want to be a part of. 'Cause I sure ain't takin' the side of this here Mexican. You sure as hell knew that when you led me here.”

Josiah glanced over his shoulder, offering Scrap a look that he should have been able to decipher by now: It meant shut up.

“You should listen to the wily one this time. Scrap Elliot knows of what he speaks, Señor Wolfe.” Juan Carlos said. He stepped forward and raised the rifle, aiming it directly at Josiah's chest. “Maria is dead.”

“I'm sorry,” Josiah said. The air had left his chest. He felt like he had been gut-shot himself. “I only left her for a minute,” he whispered.

“Sorry is no offer of remorse,” Juan Carlos said, his face twisting with so much grief that Josiah barely recognized him. “You are responsible for her death, Josiah Wolfe. You left a woman to defend herself in the streets. It does not matter how capable you think she was. I shall never forgive you for putting the only woman I have ever loved in such danger that it cost her her life. Now leave. Or I will kill you myself.”

There was nothing to do but leave.

Josiah felt like he was walking through quicksand as he trudged slowly toward Clipper. His mind was numb, posing objections to Juan Carlos silently, not daring to speak another word, rewinding the events of the day, seeing the reality of blame in the angry eyes of his friend.

If anybody knew the depths of grief, it was Josiah. He had lost his wife, Lily, and three daughters, in the matter of a year, to a silent killer, a sickness that was slow and the suffering long. Watching a child soaked in fevers, struggling to live, raising her arms up in need, begging for relief, for help when there was none to be had, was the worst kind of pain a man like Josiah could imagine. To watch three children fall to the same fate, then his pregnant wife, too weak to give birth to their son, too, was a journey to madness that always ended at the cemetery.

His son was three years old now, a survivor of the grip of death only because of the courage of the midwife, Ofelia, who would become the baby's wet nurse and caretaker. A woman who Josiah was glad to call friend, Mexican or not, and one that watched over his son at this very moment in Austin so he could continue to serve with the Texas Rangers and rebuild his life. One more time.

It was to Josiah's surprise, then, that Juan Carlos had a relationship with anyone as close as that he claimed with Maria Villareal. That he loved her as he stated, and claimed her as the only woman in the world who had a deed of any kind to his heart, was news. Josiah had never seen Juan Carlos give any woman a hint of affection—either with a look or an act—other than Pearl Fikes, his niece, and then it was a different kind of affection.

Whether Juan Carlos had reason to live, to fight through the grief that was surely hanging hard on the old Mexican's heart now, was beyond telling. All Josiah knew was that he had lost a good friend. Lost one of the few men he trusted his back to and would willingly die for without a second thought. He still felt that way, would gladly take a bullet for Juan Carlos if it came to that.

There was no way Josiah could give Juan Carlos the message Maria had given him, that she, too, had loved the man who claimed to love her. There was no way to know the story, why the two of them could never get their love together, but it felt all too familiar to Josiah. He could see loving Pearl Fikes from a distance, just like Juan Carlos had loved Maria Villareal.

Losing his friend, on top of everything else, was too much to swallow. It would have been easier if Juan Carlos were dead, killed in a great battle of some kind—offering his life for a valiant cause. But that was not the case. Juan Carlos still walked the earth, carrying a grudge, a matter of deep hatred for Josiah that did not appear able to be settled. It was a sad turn of events, one that Josiah could have never predicted.

There was no hope of forgiveness in Juan Carlos's eyes or in his actions.

Knowing that would be the hardest note to take. Josiah was not sure how to handle any of it, other than to do as he was told and leave his friend behind. Perhaps forever.

He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Juan Carlos one last time before mounting his Appaloosa.

The Mexican stood solidly, the rifle aimed at Josiah, with no offer to change anything that had happened or been said.

Scrap was already situated on Missy, ready to go. “Come on, Wolfe, let's get out of here before that old fool goes and does somethin' stupid. If he shoots, I'll shoot. And you know I'll be glad to take an extra shot just to make sure the devil is dead.”

“Careful with your tongue, Elliot.”

“Ain't my tongue you should be worried about. I never trusted that man in the first place, always showin' up and disappearin' at the moment of the worst consequences. What you see now is the reason why. Given the chance, he'll turn on you like a snake—bite you in the back of the ankle and scurry off to Lord knows where. Some place like this, a row of shacks left off by somebody else for him to take up in. He's a bad streak just waitin' to show himself.”

“I'll never believe that.”

“Don't matter to me much what you believe, Wolfe. I know what my gut says, and that's about the only thing I trust at the moment.” Scrap hesitated a second. “Come on, Missy, let's go,” he said, urging the roan mare forward, scowling at Josiah as he went off slowly, his finger still on the trigger of his Peacemaker.

Josiah settled into his saddle but was in no hurry to follow anyone.

His skin felt like it was being stung by a million bees, each one stabbing its stinger into every open pore it could find. His mouth was dry, and he could hear his heart beating. If he'd been a crying man, tears would have already busted through the dam in his eyes. Josiah had lost his ability to cry a long, long time ago—burying everything you love in the family cemetery will do that to a man. Still, inside, Josiah's own gut was shredded to pieces.

The waves continued to beat against the shore and then retreat. The moon reflected off the water like a giant light hung over a mirror. Corpus Christi was behind him, south, and if Josiah had it his way, he'd never, ever, set foot in that city again.

“Giddy up, Clipper. Let's go now,” Josiah said, catching up with Scrap, forcing himself not to look back.

 

 

The luck of the weather and the cycle of the moon were on Josiah and Scrap's side, making it easy for them to navigate the trail in the thick of night. For once, Josiah was more than glad to let Scrap take the lead.

The boy seemed to know where he was going, and that was just fine. All Josiah wanted to do was ride, let Clipper run without worry or caution. Which, of course, was something Josiah would never do at night under normal circumstances. But this had not been a normal day, or an ordinary night that called for discipline and common sense—even though he was putting himself and his horse at risk. The irony of that decision was not lost on Josiah, but any other structure of normalcy
was
lost to him. He could barely think and, in reality, had no desire to think or feel anything.