The Badger's Revenge (15 page)

The woman jerked her head back, startled. She immediately put her hands into the air, in fear.

“You have nothing to be afraid of, ma'am. I'm a Ranger. I'm here to help.”

“How do I know that's true?”

Josiah nodded, emptied the bullets of the six-shooter into his hand, holstered the Colt, then raised his hands to the side away from his belt. “I mean you no harm.”

The woman stood up, blood on the front of her thick black skirt, making it look all shiny and wet. She was portly, a big woman, wearing a tall hat, the veil pulled upward. Most of her skin was covered by black cloth, her garb resembling widow's weeds. Bill Clarmont's funeral was probably not the first time the outfit had been worn in recent weeks or months, nor would it be the last.

“They've gone and killed Henry Peterson,” the woman said. “Henry never hurt a fly. Not once. And he didn't have the cold heart of a banker, either. He was a fine man. Deserved better, he did.”

“Did you see who did this?”

The woman shook her head no. “I was coming back from the doings, a funeral, you know.”

“Bill Clarmont.”

“Yes, a deputy in this town.” She eyed Josiah from head to toe. “That why you're here, Ranger? To put a stop to this senseless violence?”

“I wish I could answer yes to that question.” He refrained from offering his name, unsure if it was common knowledge that he had been the one to kill Bill Clarmont. There was no need to alarm the woman any further on a day like today. “So, you don't know who did this?”

“No, not for certain. But this town has been overrun with thugs of late. I sure hope someone has the fortitude to go after these cold-blooded killers and give them the same treatment that Hardin boy got.”

Josiah sighed heavily. He stopped at the woman's side and looked down at Henry Peterson. He'd been shot three times in the chest.

“Looks like the mortician is a busy man in this town,” Josiah said.

“Lately,” the woman said. “Him and the sheriff.”

“The sheriff's dead, ma'am. There won't be any justice served to those killers right away. At least by him.”

“Roy is dead?”

“Yes.”

“You're certain?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Then there is a Lord in Heaven. Our prayers have been answered,” the woman said.

Josiah looked at the woman curiously and was about to ask her what she meant when he heard another ruckus outside: the arrival of several horses and riders coming to stop in front of the bank. He motioned for the woman to be quiet, then pulled the Colt from the holster and made his way to the door.

The last thing Josiah Wolfe was expecting to see
outside of the bank was a company of Texas Rangers. There were fifteen of them, two abreast, standing in wait in the middle of the street.

Captain Pete Feders headed up the troop, and Josiah was greatly relieved to see Scrap Elliot sitting on Missy, his trusted roan mare, three horses back in the mix of the boys.

Josiah stepped out of the bank, failing to tell the woman that all was well. “It sure is good to see you, Pete, um, Captain Feders.” He walked out into the street and stopped a few feet from the captain's horse.

“Wolfe, you're alive,” Feders said. His facial expression didn't change. He was stoic, his eyes hard, looking at Josiah head-on, then beyond, searching past him.

“Last time I checked.”

“Elliot reported that you were captured, carried off by two Comanche. Our hopes were not great in finding you among the living. But we set out for your rescue. It seems that our journey was unnecessary.”

Pete Feders was a lanky man, a true son of Texas, born and bred in the state just like Josiah. They had ridden briefly together as Rangers, with Captain Hiram Fikes, before the Frontier Battalion had been formed and then again after. Both had been there when Fikes was killed, which was what ultimately led to Feders taking charge of the new company of Rangers, in the capacity of captain. Leadership didn't seem to fit Feders well at all—at least not comfortably, in a way that motivates other men to risk their lives for you. Riding second seemed to suit him more, taking orders rather giving them. Feders hadn't mastered that skill yet, even though he'd been in the lead spot for nearly six months now.

Feders was nearly as tall as Josiah, the two about the same age, and Feders was a veteran of the War Between the States himself, though not as a member of the Texas Brigade like Josiah had been. Feders had fought with an outfit from Alabama, which never made sense to Josiah.

Feders hailed from one of the counties in West Texas, where he fought the Comanche and the Kiowa plenty of times as a young man, braving the frontier before signing up in the army.

A thin but well-pronounced scar ran from the corner of Pete's right eye to his ear. Josiah tried not to stare at the scar, but he couldn't help himself. He had no clue of the scar's origin, whether it was produced at the hand of an Indian or a Northern Aggressor, or neither. Pete Feders was a private man—even more so since taking the reins as captain of the company of Rangers. He ate by himself and spent a good deal of time away from the shenanigans of the men when they weren't out on a mission: horse races, shooting matches, card games, and such.

Josiah thought that Feders's aloofness was to his detriment, a sign of the struggle he was having leading the company. Captain Hiram Fikes, Hank to his friends, had always been right in the thick of every aspect of Ranger life, whether it was eating, gambling, wrestling, or drinking long into the night. As far as Josiah was concerned, Pete would do himself a favor to remember Fikes's skills, but it wasn't his place to provide the reminder—or the lesson in leadership. Still it was good to see Pete Feders.

The captain dismounted his horse, a black stallion that had come from the stables of Hiram Fikes.

The captain's widow favored Pete as a suitor for her daughter, Pearl, and had made it clearly known to everyone that he was her only choice—even over Major John B. Jones, who had taken a turn at courting Pearl.

The black stallion had been a gift made with the public intention of making sure the widow's wishes were met without question. It did not matter what Pearl herself wanted, since she had declined Feders's proposal of marriage more than once in recent memory.

Josiah wasn't sure of the entire reasoning behind her rejection of Pete's affections, but he had a pretty good idea—and that had more to do with her relationship with him, or a desire for one, than it did with the fact that Pete was a captain in the Rangers, where her father had lived a double life and, ultimately, lost his life.

“It is good to see you standing on two feet, Wolfe. I figured you for a dead man this time out. The fate of Ranger Overmeyer did not bode well for a positive outcome when we began our search,” Feders said.

“I count myself a lucky man at the moment.” Josiah looked past Feders and nodded at Scrap. The boy flashed a brief smile, then looked away.

Josiah had some questions for Scrap, like how he got loose and found his way back to the Ranger camp, what had happened to Red, and how they found him in Comanche. But those questions, and more, would have to wait until they were free of their current troubles. The hows and whys really didn't matter at the moment. Josiah was just happy to see Scrap Elliot alive and well, on his horse, continuing his life as a Ranger.

“It seems that way,” Feders said. “I think the circumstances we all find ourselves in appear odd. Where are the people of Comanche on this fine day? The storm has passed. I assumed the streets would be jammed with citizens restocking their needs—grain, feed, libations, whatever the desire.”

“There is a storm still raging on here.”

“Explain, Ranger,” Feders said.

“There is little time for that. The troubles are recent. Just happened minutes before your arrival.”

“Our jurisdiction doesn't allow us to interfere, you know that, Wolfe.”

“I'm aware of that, but I am not free of trouble, and neither is this town,” Josiah said. “We have no choice but to interfere.”

“What say you?”

“Liam O'Reilly robbed the bank within the last hour. He is on the run, heading north, out of town. They killed the banker, Henry Peterson, and the sheriff is dead, too. I believe at the hands of O'Reilly, though I don't know that for certain. He was riding with the sheriff, tracking me down after I freed myself from the Comanche brothers who took me hostage. Something must have gone wrong, or the sheriff stood up to O'Reilly, one or the other. Either suggestion is just speculation on my part. What matters is the sheriff is dead.”

Feders waved his hand, motioning for a man, a Ranger Josiah did not know too well at all, B. D. Donley, to dismount and join in the conversation. “There is no county sheriff to take up the reins on this one?” He turned his attention back to Josiah. “What about a deputy?”

“That's part of the trouble that still remains with me, Pete,” Josiah said.

“What do you mean?” Feders asked, an annoyed look flashing across his face. He had made it known that he didn't like to be called by his first name and found it a betrayal of rank and friendship. Josiah had known Pete Feders for so long it was difficult to call him anything else . . . especially Captain.

“I killed the deputy,” Josiah said.

 

 

A final bell tolled in the distance, from an unseen
church standing sentinel over an unseen cemetery. Bill Clarmont's funeral was now most certainly concluded, and the townsfolk were free to return to their daily lives—if they dared.

A few wagons appeared on the main street of town, the passengers and drivers dressed in full black attire, even though the day was more suited for something lighter, something that would denote more of a celebration. The riders in the wagon looked leery of the assemblage of Rangers.

Just as Josiah had heard the toll of the funeral bells, the mourners had surely heard the gunshots and the ruckus caused by O'Reilly. And seeing a troop of men, all dressed differently, not in military garb, with no markings to distinguish them as Rangers, probably brought more fear than curiosity.

Comanche had seen its fair share of vigilantes; lawless mobs that had wreaked havoc on those that followed the straight and narrow, living quiet, law-abiding lives.

The sun had risen high into a cloudless sky. The color of it was a solid blue, strong, not fragile like some November skies tended to be. It could have been a perfect summer day instead of a day drawing nearer and nearer to a brief winter. The wind was warm, pushing up from the south, and even in the center of town there was a flavor of salt and humidity to the air.

But Josiah's throat was dry. He stood over the dead Comanche, Little Shirt, uncertain of what to do next. The rest of the boys—Josiah's term, and most every other Ranger's term for the company—had followed him to the scene in the street, all mounted on their horses, ready for the next order from Captain Feders. B. D. Donley had followed behind Josiah, along with Feders.

“How come you were a-limpin'?” B. D. Donley asked.

“Caught a graze. I'm all right,” Josiah said. In all of the commotion, the pain was a distant irritation, but there was no question that it still hurt and was open to the possibility of infection.

“You takin' the honors of the scalp?” Donley said, stepping past Josiah. Donley was a short fellow with a scratchy voice, a ruddy face, and a set of eyes that could have belonged to a crow; all black and beady.

Josiah shook his head no. He'd never scalped a dead Indian, and he wasn't about to start now.

“What's the matter,” Donley continued, chiding Josiah and completely ignoring Pete Feders, “ain't you got the stomach for it?”

“I didn't kill this man for a trophy,” Josiah said. “I killed him because I had to.”

“Don't look like you're in a position to be all righteous, Wolfe,” Donley said, his skinny chest puffing out, looking past Little Shirt at the gathering crowd.

“That's enough, Donley,” Feders said. “You'll not make an exhibition of this.”

“Ain't right, Captain,” Donley said. He pulled his lips tight, till they almost disappeared. “This Comanch would scalp a live child. I know, I've seen it done. Ain't a purty sight, I tell you. Rots in your dreams so you can't make the bad pictures go away.”

“This is not the place,” Feders said, lowering his voice. “This town isn't anything but a powder keg waiting to blow. I want you to take two other men and go north after Liam O'Reilly. Track him as far as you can. Kill him if you get the chance, but don't stay out past three days.”