The Badger's Revenge (18 page)

The capitol building had a slight feel to it, and there were some who were demanding that a grander building be erected—but again the economic collapse had quelled any real momentum to rebuild. As it was, the election in 1850 had only named Austin the capital for twenty years, so there was a temporary feel to the building and what it stood for. Another election, in 1872, had settled the matter, making Austin the permanent capital of Texas.

It seemed there were buildings as far as the eye could see—churches and dry goods stores: Sampson & Hendrik's groceries and hardware, more than one mercantile, competing liveries, the Opera House, a few theaters, Republic Square and the county courthouse, nestled close to “Little Mexico,” an enclave favored mostly by Mexicans and very few Anglos. Little Mexico was a rough section of town, but no more so than the section that served to provide entertainment for cowboys hot off the trail and looking for a good time in the bagnios, whorehouses, and saloons. That area, the first ward, was west of Congress Avenue and ran to just north of the Colorado River. It didn't really have an Anglo name, like Little Mexico, other than Hell's Half Acre—but that was a Dallas name, and most Austinites refused to call it that—most cities had spots that were called that or something similar. It was one place Josiah rarely visited, but he could see it from where he sat on the ridge.

Very few trees were mixed in among the buildings, hardly any in fact, and what wildlife existed in town was mostly the two-footed, human kind. Even birds seemed wary of Austin.

Occasionally Josiah would look to the sky and see a soaring hawk or buzzard, and his mood would be lightened for a moment, memories of his childhood home rushing to the forefront of his mind. Then he would grow sad, longing for the birdsongs in the woods instead of the rumble of the train, the Houston and Texas Central Railroad, the hoots and hollers of teamsters, and the stagecoaches in a hurry to deliver their cargo, whatever it might be.

“If you don't like the city, then why in tarnation did you move here, Wolfe?” Scrap asked.

“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Still does for that matter. At least as long as I'm riding with the Rangers.”

“Your boy ain't no more safe here than he was in Seerville.”

“Ofelia has family here. They're not alone.”

“I'd get rid of that Mexican woman if it was me. Your boy ain't gonna know if he's Anglo or a Mexican.”

Josiah shot Scrap a cold, hard look, and Scrap immediately looked away. He'd voiced his opinion before about Josiah's choice to employ Ofelia as a wet nurse, a replacement mother, really, and Josiah had, in no uncertain terms, told Scrap to mind his own business. “If I was going to keep on Rangering, then I had to do something.”

“Find a wife like every other widow man I know. Might be a place to start.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Would be for me.”

“You need to . . .”

“. . . I know, mind my own damn business.”

“Something like that.”

Scrap shrugged his shoulders. “What are you gonna do if you don't have to leave the city anymore?”

“I suppose if I'm cut from the company, then I'll look to move back home.”

“Maybe that wouldn't be so bad.”

“Hard to say,” Josiah said. “Hard to say.”

 

 

They took the ride into the city slow. The only
hurry Josiah was in boiled down to two things. He couldn't wait to see Lyle, and more than anything, he wanted out of Charlie Webb's clothes. It was hard not to be grateful to Billie for her generosity, but how he had come to accept that generosity in the first place was hard to swallow. And he could not get Billie out of his mind. Her fate was worrisome, a waif lost in plain sight in the midst of an angry town—but there was nothing he could do to help her at the moment except what he had done: leave.

It would be good to step into a pair of boots that were his own instead of wearing Charlie Webb's and a shirt cut with his own scent and not a dead man's.

Josiah picked up the pace a bit when they crossed over the train tracks. His home was less than a block away now.

Scrap eased up alongside him, a comfortable smile on his face. “Your horse will be glad to see you.”

“And I him. I thought Clipper was lost to me.”

Scrap shook his head no. “He stayed close. Feders sent a runner back to Austin to make Major Jones aware of the attack from the Comanche. They brung him back to the livery, like I told 'em.”

“I appreciate it. Clipper and I have been through a lot together.”

“That's a fine horse, too. What you gonna do with her?”

Josiah shrugged. “Haven't thought too much about it. I think the sight of her gave Billie Webb a heavy heart. Parting seemed to be a relief. I got other things to worry about at the moment. We'll keep her fed and tended to. That's the least I can do.”

“Ought to bring a fair price if you decide to sell her.”

“Now that doesn't seem like the right thing to do, does it?”

“I'm just sayin' . . .”

Josiah didn't answer Scrap. His attention was immediately drawn down the street as his house came into view.

There was a woman standing on the porch, looking up and down the street, nervously, like she was expecting someone, or had lost something, and the woman was not Ofelia.

There was no mistaking her identity. Her shoulderlength blond hair shone in the fading evening light like a golden beacon welcoming Josiah home. She had an hourglass figure and was dressed in clothes that suggested she was still in mourning for the loss of her father, though not the formal widow's weeds that her mother wore every minute of the day. She had on a comfortable black riding skirt, black boots, a black long-sleeved blouse, and no hat.

Still, even at this distance, Josiah thought that Pearl Fikes was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her face was sweet as a China doll's, and her eyes were cornflower blue, thoughtful and easy to read, but far from fragile. Pearl had received the lion's share of her good features from her father. There was very little of her mother in her that Josiah could see.

Regardless of that, of how he felt, her presence on his porch not only concerned him but frightened the hell out of him. She had never been at his house before, and he could not imagine what had provoked her to make a visit now.

He urged Lady Mead on, kicking a bit of dust up onto Scrap. The rains that had plagued Comanche had obviously not been as heavy in Austin. The street was dry, the ruts as hard as they normally were.

“What the heck is the matter with you?” Scrap yelled out.

Josiah didn't offer an explanation. He wasn't sure he had one. There was a deep rile in his gut, a familiar feeling, one that he usually trusted, one that almost always told him something was wrong.

Lady Mead played easily under his command, though not as easily as Clipper. The noise of the city didn't seem to bother her, though running full out in a street that had traffic—wagons, coaches, and lone cowboys—appeared to be something the horse wasn't too used to, or it had been a long time since she had experienced the exercise of ignoring city traffic. She lurched ahead of his directions, anticipating his moves wrongly, and then had to be pulled back.

Josiah brought the palomino to a quick stop in the middle of the street in front of his house.

Pearl had seen him by then, the expression on her soft face hard to read. But there was no mistaking the fact that she wasn't surprised to see him, nor did it appear that she was especially glad of his return.

No one else was in sight, not Ofelia or Lyle. Panic was setting in; memories of the past when both of them were in harm's way rushed to the forefront of his mind. His fear was real, and the only way he knew to counter it was to touch his gun—Charlie Webb's gun—and prepare to pull it if necessary.

Josiah nodded at Pearl as he ran past her to the front door. “Ofelia! Ofelia, come out here! Ofelia!” he screamed, coming to a stop. He could feel his heart racing, taste the fear in his mouth. He gripped the Colt Frontier so hard it shot a pain through his shoulder.

“She's not here,” Pearl said. Her voice was soft, but the sad look on her face betrayed her intention, as her eyes grew glassy with tears. “She's gone. Ofelia is gone, Josiah. Ofelia is gone.”

All of the noise in the city vanished. It was like
Josiah had stepped straight into a locked room made of six-inch steel. “Where's Lyle?” he demanded, more directly than he had ever spoken to Pearl.

“Sleeping. He was tired.”

“He doesn't know you.”

“We didn't have any trouble,” Pearl said, never once breaking eye contact with Josiah. There was a strength about her that was just as present as her physical beauty, and Josiah found it easy to understand why so many men were in pursuit of her affections. “I've been around children before, Josiah Wolfe.”

He took a deep breath. “Where is Ofelia?”

“She had to return home. There has been a tragedy in her family.”

“What?”

“Her daughter is very sick. The details are thin. To me, at the very least.”

Josiah knew almost every member of Ofelia's family. They were just like family to him, as well, even though there was a divide of culture and language. Ofelia's daughter, Lita, was older, had children of her own, and had taken over the midwife duties around Tyler when Ofelia had come to Austin with him. The sickness had to be serious for Ofelia to leave Lyle.

“I feared she was dead,” Josiah said.

“The daughter?”

“Ofelia. I don't know what I would have done.” Josiah took a deep breath and settled the Colt back into his holster. “How did you come to be here, to care for Lyle?” Josiah asked.

Pearl wiped the tear from her eye. “I feared you were dead once I heard of your capture by the Comanche.”

“Oh.” It occurred to Josiah then that the tears were for him. Pearl was relieved to see him. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, so he turned away, saw Scrap Elliot jump off his horse and run toward the house, gun drawn.

“Easy there, Elliot,” Josiah yelled out. “Everything is fine here.”

“You sure?” Scrap said, his attention quickly drawn to Pearl. It seemed like he couldn't take his eyes off her.

“Yes.”

“Ma'am.” Scrap doffed his hat, swinging it low, overacting the gentlemanly role by more than a tad.

Pearl Fikes smiled, then laughed slightly. “It is good to see you once more, Ranger Elliot.”

Scrap looked embarrassed, almost bashful, when he stood back up. He held his tongue and didn't say anything. His manners around women were always precarious and uncertain, as far as Josiah had seen.

“Why don't you take the horses back and tend to them,” Josiah said to Scrap.

“Gladly.”

Scrap grabbed the reins of both horses and stalked off. Pearl chuckled again, though this time it looked like a nervous reaction. “I've offended him,” she said.

“Don't pay any attention to him. He's as sensitive as a baby's skin in the sunshine.”

“I should apologize.”

“He tries too hard. Trust me, the next time he sees you, all will be forgotten and forgiven.”

“If you say so.”

Josiah looked past Pearl, inside the house. There was no noise, nothing stirring. He longed to see Lyle but didn't want to wake him.

“How did you come to be here?” Josiah asked, his voice soft. “I didn't expect to find you here.”

“Juan Carlos came for me. He did not think he could care for the child and was opposed to leaving the boy with strangers in ‘Little Mexico.' He and Ofelia know a lot of the same people, but they are very unfamiliar with each other, so coming to get me seemed even more appropriate to Juan Carlos than caring for a child himself. If one can imagine.”

Josiah chuckled then. “No, I can't imagine that he'd be a good candidate to watch over Lyle. Where is Juan Carlos? I would like to see my old friend.”

“Who knows? You know Juan Carlos. One minute he's here, and the next he's gone. You never know when he's going to show up next.”

“It's been months since I've seen him. July, before we ventured into Lost Valley.”

“I worry about him. His age will prohibit his adventures one of these days,” Pearl said, wistfully.

Josiah silently agreed. But he also knew that Juan Carlos was the kind of man that lived for adventures, and he would most likely die in the middle of one of his great escapades rather than wasting away on a deathbed. “How long have you been here?”