Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (30 page)

“So you have nothing to help me, Wolfe?” McNelly asked.

“I failed, sir, I did not know Cortina's attack on Corpus Christi was going to happen.” Josiah hesitated, shifted his weight. “I hope to never hold spy duty again, sir.”

“I don't think that's a concern, Wolfe.” McNelly turned his attention to Scrap. “And what of you, Elliot? In the months spent in Corpus, is there anything I should know before I lead my men into battle?”

Scrap stepped forward, and Josiah gladly stepped out of the way. “I'd say you need to seek out Sheriff John McLane. He's got his finger on the pulse of them minute gangs. Knows a lot of the fellas runnin' them. He ain't likely to be real happy to answer to a Ranger, but I found him to be a good man, Captain McNelly. He's one for law and order, and dead set against the minute groups. We might have seen their handiwork on two Mexican rustlers. I suppose those men didn't deserve to be killed.”

McNelly nodded. “The minute groups are just as troubling as Cortina and his raiders.”

Scrap withheld comment, and Josiah was glad. If there was anybody in the room who hated Mexicans as much as the men in the minute groups, it was Scrap Elliot.

“What became of this Miguel, Wolfe?” McNelly asked.

“I'm not sure, sir. I am certain he fired on a cattle drive, sending them into a stampede. My eyes are sharp, and I know a man when I see him. We went after the strays, Elliot and I, and found the two dead men he just spoke of, their throats cut. Rustlers, I believe, but cannot be sure. But there was no sign of Miguel. He vanished. Elliot and I were heading back to the herd when Hughes, one of the cowboys, sought us out and gave me the news about my son.”

“Very well, then. I'm sure you are anxious to get on the trail to Austin.” McNelly walked over to Josiah and shook his hand. “Be safe. I will keep my eye out for this fellow, Miguel. I would suggest you do the same.”

Josiah withdrew his hand from McNelly's weak handshake, nodded, and turned to leave. Scrap turned to follow.

“Elliot,” McNelly called out. “Where do you think you're going?”

“With Wolfe, Captain, to Austin.”

McNelly shook his head no. “You'll be riding with us, Elliot, to Corpus. I need all the good shots I can find.”

Scrap stared at McNelly, hesitated, then looked at Josiah, who gave him a quick, almost unseen, nod of approval.

“Yes, sir,” Scrap said. “I'm happy to ride into battle with you.” A sad smile crossed his face. He shook Josiah's hand quickly, uttered, “Good luck, Wolfe,” then rushed out of the tent.

Josiah followed Scrap outside, not saying another word. He mounted Clipper, turned and nodded to McNelly, who was standing at the tent's door, and trotted the Appaloosa slowly until he was clear of the camp, then broke into a full run, not looking back as he went.

Austin came into view the following afternoon. The ride had been fast and focused. Josiah had barely taken time to rest Clipper, or himself, and done only what he had to do to keep going.

Clipper was showing signs of fatigue, of slowing unconsciously, but the horse continued to press on, continued to respond to Josiah's demands the best he could under the relentless push of his master.

There was an extra helping of spirit in the Appaloosa's heart, one that could easily be taken for granted, and had been on this trip. The bond between the man and the beast was as strong as any could be, but there was a scar on the relationship now, one that Clipper had no clue about. Maria Villareal's death—and the simple choice, retrieving his horse, that had caused it—would never be far from Josiah's mind, and because of the loyalty he felt for Clipper, he would always feel responsible for her death. Atonement seemed impossible, a lost cause, a regret to hang with the other violent moments of his life that held no hope of resolution.

It was difficult not to think about Juan Carlos, too, and of the anger and rage in his eyes as he pointed the rifle at Josiah and ordered him to leave.

Josiah wasn't sure how he was going to explain to Pearl what had happened with her uncle. Beyond that, there were other concerns to face. Returning to Austin meant facing the possibility that the populace and press, those that drove him out in the first place, would still be in the mood to see him hanged. He had to wonder if he would ever be able to walk the streets of Austin freely, or if everyone would continue to consider him guilty in the death of Pete Feders. It was not murder. It was self-defense. Even a manslaughter charge would fall flat, given the right venue.

The questions crowded his mind, but they did not stop Josiah's extreme pace. He had concluded that there was no getting away from the deeds he had committed in the name of service and employment by the Texas Rangers. His past was less a worry now, but he knew it would rise up to greet him at some point. He just didn't know when that would happen or where.

Josiah had journeyed far and fast, leaving the issues of right and wrong and fighting Juan Cortina in the hands of more capable men.

Oddly, he had missed Scrap's presence on the trip north, but he was certain that the boy was where he needed to be—and wanted to be: right in the middle of the fight with the Mexican interlopers. If Scrap had a chance to take Cortina's head, he would do so gladly. Rushing to Austin to see a sick child held little adventure for Scrap, and Josiah knew that. Still, the ride was far quieter than he was accustomed to.

The road into Austin was familiar now.

It was still hard to believe, but the city was his home—had been for nearly a year—but only because Lyle was there, waiting, hopefully still alive. The thought that the boy might be dead sent shivers down Josiah's spine.

He slowed Clipper as the road into Austin became Congress Avenue. The Old Stone State Capitol building stood centered at the end of the bustling avenue, lined with buildings of all sizes and for all purposes, good and bad. Freshcut lumber was not a scent Josiah had experienced while he was away, and the smell caught the attention of his nose right away, as did the sound of beating hammers.

Growth and prosperity had returned to Austin, the railroad and stagecoach lines providing a constant influx of new people, and money as well, obviously. Perhaps society had clawed its way out of the Panic of '73. Josiah hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy trying to be Zeb Teter to care about much of anything else.

The reality was that the state of the economy in the city mattered little to Josiah. The onslaught of building might be a result of the season, of the opportunity and hope that came with spring.

He sped up the avenue, looking for his normal cross street to get home. At this point, he wasn't concerned much about hiding his identity. He hoped that four months had been long enough for his face to fall out of the focus of hate, speculation, and rumor that he had experienced before leaving for Corpus in such a rush. Surely, it was someone else's turn. Another tragedy or scandal, a replacement for the rude accusations and speculation about his motives to kill Pete Feders—namely that he'd done it for the hand, and purse, of Pearl Fikes. Which was the furthest thing from the truth.

It was late in the day, and the sun was gliding down its unseen track to the other side of the earth. The sky was clear. The day had been warm. Warm enough for Josiah to work up a sweat pushing Clipper to ride faster and faster. He was covered, head to toe, in trail dust, and since the ride had been so frantic, there was still a layer of salt on his skin, a souvenir from the seashore. More than a couple of days of stubble covered Josiah's face. His clothes were stiff with filth. But his physical state didn't matter any more than the state of Austin's financial health. His heart was racing as fast as it could without jumping out of his chest, the closer he got to the little house at the corner of Sixth Street and Pecan.

He continued to try and steel himself for the worst news.

Josiah was not sure how he would react if he
was
too late. No matter the experience he'd accumulated over the years with facing the loss of those he loved, never seeing Lyle alive again was not something he could bring himself to imagine.

It would be too much of a loss to bear. The final straw. A snap of madness that would never heal. Josiah was sure of one thing: He would not survive the death of his one and only son. There would be no desire left inside of him to walk in the world any longer . . . No job, no amount of money, could ever take that pain away.

The house came into view just as the sun set beyond the horizon, offering up an abundance of gray light that only promised to grow darker. A buggy sat in front of the simple clapboard house, the single black lead horse tied to the hitching post.

Josiah pushed Clipper harder down the street.

The horse groaned but did as he asked, coming to a stop only when Josiah yanked back on the reins, tossing dust and dirt straight up onto the porch of the house.

He jumped off Clipper, his eyes blinded with fear, and rushed up to the porch. “Ofelia, Ofelia, I'm home. Lyle, I'm home,” he called out.

A light burned in the window of the house, and to his surprise, Josiah found the door locked as he tried to turn the knob. He wrestled with the knob for a second, then began to beat on the door. “Ofelia, Ofelia, it's me, Josiah. Let me in.” He beat on the door again, his fist stinging, his arm aching from the tension. “Let me in,” he said, in a lower tone, his fear taking over, his resolve wavering, tears welling in his eyes. “Let me in,” he whispered. “Lyle, I'm home.” Exhaustion and fear had caught up with him.

Finally, he heard footsteps walking toward the door from inside the house. The doorknob turned slowly, and Josiah stepped back, expecting to see Ofelia, expecting to rush right past her to Lyle's bed.

Instead, the door swung open and there stood Billie Webb. “Lord have mercy, Josiah Wolfe, you have the patience of a rabbit.” A head shorter than him, with shoulderlength brown hair, and summer blue eyes, Billie perched both hands on her hips and scowled at Josiah.

“Billie? What're you doing here?”

“Well that's a fine hello.”

“I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting to see you.”

“I bet you weren't.”

Josiah peeked his head over Billie's, looked inside. “Lyle . . .”

“Is sleeping. Or, at least, he was until you started bangin' on the damn door like some darned fool intent on breakin' it down.”

“I haven't seen him for four months.” Josiah pushed by Billie, who remained firmly planted in the doorway.

“He's still sick, Josiah. Doc says he might be contagious until the fever breaks.”

“I don't care.”

Billie grabbed Josiah's arm and stopped him. “He might not know you. He's delirious sometimes and normal other times.”

“I don't care,” Josiah said, breaking free of Billie's grip. “I know
him
.”

The room was dark. A solid green blanket had been hung in the window to keep the light of day out. Now that it was nearly nighttime, the room was twice as dark as it normally would be.

Ofelia sat in the corner, at the foot of Lyle's bed, on the same stool she used to sit on in the kitchen.

The open door had let in a crack of light, enough for Josiah to see a tired set of deep brown Mexican eyes and a few new strands of gray hair on the woman's head. Ofelia looked up at him, forced a smile, then returned her attention back to the lump in the bed.

There was an odor in the room that Josiah recognized immediately. It was the smell of salves, tonics, and sickness. It was impossible not to remember that the same smells were the announcement of what was to come. The foul odor of death was not far behind. It had been that way with his three girls, Lily, and now, with Lyle.