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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

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BOOK: The Badger's Revenge
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Josiah pulled the blanket over his head and tried to snuggle deeper into the feather mattress and fall back asleep.
He had dreaded the coming of this day, even though he had been more than excited by some of the prospects of it.
He was sure he was ready for whatever was coming his way. He had to be, but . . . the pine cabin had always been just over the next horizon, even when he had ventured into Tyler or Waco as a boy, then as a young man, with his father or a friend nearly always at his side. Texas was all he knew, the only part of the world that made sense to him. Leaving it made him nervous, but not in a can't-breathe kind of way, just nervous in a not-knowing-what's-next kind of way.
If only the cause of his leaving Texas were to see the world for fun and profit and not to take up arms in a war he had yet to understand, then he would have been truly excited. But that was not to be. He
was
off to war, as an infantryman in the newly formed Texas Brigade. A young soldier, green to the sight of death outside of the barn, or the sight of blood rushing out of the body of a wounded Union soldier, perhaps at his hand, instead of a pig or a cow. Battle, and its consequences, was just too uncomfortable to imagine.
The day of his departure had arrived with the push of a cold, hard wind—whether he was ready or not.
Below, under the loft where he'd slept since he could remember, his mother moved about as quietly as she could, preparing the morning meal. The deep aroma of coffee reached his nose, further provoking him to climb out from underneath the comfortable blanket.
He glanced out the window as he stood, searching for the silhouette of his father walking the land, or coming out of the barn, easing through his morning chores. But Josiah saw nothing moving. It was almost like the world was frozen in the thick gloom of the perpetually gray morning—the same color of the uniform he would soon be wearing—and neither his father, nor any other living creature it seemed, dared set foot on the ground before Josiah did.
The fields beyond the cabin were freshly harvested; the smell of decay yet to set on the wind, but there was still work to be done on the small stretch of land that Josiah Wolfe had called home his entire life.
Firewood still needed to be chopped, feed gathered for the horses and sole surviving cow, which had been mated with the Halversons' bull for next year's meat, and whatever other provisions needed to be put up in the larder to get his mother and father through the winter. None of those chores were his concern now. The burden of providing for the farm would fall squarely on the shoulders of his father—who was more than able, still a strapping man as the age of fifty rapidly approached. Josiah knew his parents' life would have been made more comfortable if they would have been blessed with another son, or even a daughter. But that was not to be. Josiah was their only son, their only child—and now he was duty-bound to leave home for points unknown, where a battle waited to be fought and blood waited to be spilled.
Thunder boomed in the distance, so far away the claps were more like drumming echoes—or cannons firing in a war that had yet to reach the confines of Texas, but surely would soon enough.
The thunder drew Josiah's attention away from the window, and then, without one quick look of regret around the loft, he shimmied down the ladder.
“Where's Pa?” Josiah asked, rubbing his forearms, shivering, as he planted his bare feet on the cold plank floor.
His mother had her back to him, standing over the stove. He was at least a head and a half taller than she was, had been since he was nigh on fifteen, a summer when he'd shot up as quick and tall as a hearty corn stalk. Her hair was pulled back and wound up off of her shoulders for the day's work ahead. There were faint brittle streaks of gray mixed in with her soft dark brown hair. Age was marking his mother with thin wrinkles and those hints of gray, almost too invisible to see, but she still looked young to Josiah.
The smell of hot bacon grease met with the aroma of coffee, and Josiah's stomach complained loudly. A piece of bread sizzled and fried in the skillet, and a pot of beans began to bubble.
“It isn't much.” His mother turned and faced him. Her eyes betrayed any strength she may have found in her morning routine; they brimmed with tears, a dam ready to burst. She spun quickly back around to the stove, flipping the bread, so, perhaps, he would not see her cry. There was no need. He had heard her soft cries throughout the night. There was no comforting her. He had tried for days after his enlistment, to no avail. She opposed the war inside the walls of her own home, and she was opposed to Josiah fighting in it no matter the reason or cause.
Josiah took a deep breath and bear-hugged his mother from behind. “I'll be fine.”
“I know. That doesn't make it any easier.”
“Where's Pa?”
His mother wiggled a bit uncomfortably, and Josiah eased back, freeing her from his gentle embrace.
“He went into town,” she said.
“Seerville?”
She shook her head no. “Tyler.”
“But the boys are mustering in Seerville, then we're off north to meet up with the rest of the Brigade.”
“I know. I tried to talk him out of it. But you know how your father is.” She served up his breakfast on an enamel plate and handed it to him, forcing a smile. “Eat up. We haven't much time.”
Josiah did as he was told, hurried to the small table and sat in his regular chair, glaring at the empty one that was his father's.
The year before Josiah was born, his father had fought in the Cherokee War of 1839. The Battle of Neches occurred just a few miles outside of Tyler. Three Texans were killed and five wounded. One of the wounded was Josiah's father, and he had walked with a limp in his right leg ever since. Josiah had never known his father when there wasn't some pain to bear because of the injury, but it was never discussed, never talked about, never given credence or used as an excuse. More than a hundred Indians were killed in that battle, the rest driven into the Arkansas Territory, and after healing, Josiah's father lost his taste for war and killing, but he had not tried to stop Josiah from joining the Texas Brigade.
Leonard Wolfe knew better than anyone that Josiah would be subjected to unbearable scrutiny and prejudice if he did not go off to war like the rest of the boys in the area. Josiah was healthy, of age, and it was his duty to prove his love of Texas, and now the Confederacy. But Leonard Wolfe did not encourage the enlistment, either, or show any more joy than his wife did, when Josiah made his decision to follow his friends into battle. Instead, he acted as though nothing had happened at all.
The storm that had been on the horizon settled squarely above the cabin. Josiah finished his breakfast and hurried to get ready, ignoring the push of rain and cold wind under the door.
It only took minutes for him to prepare to leave; everything had been packed and readied the night before. A satchel and a long gun stood waiting at the door. He would travel light until he was given a uniform and the rest of what he needed for battle. Skills, he hoped, waited, too. His mother stood, her head down, waiting next to the door, along with his gear, a tin of warm biscuits in her hand.
Josiah stood before her, trying to be the man he knew he had to be, walking away from his boyhood home.
“Don't be angry with your father, Josiah. You are his only son, and he knows the cost of war more than we.”
“He should be here.”
“He has done his best.”
“I'm not sure I believe that.”
His mother's chest heaved heavily, the air deflating out of her body in a certain and sudden sigh of resignation. “You are too like him to leave your anger behind. Write to me.” She hugged him quickly, kissed him on the cheek, then threw open the door, and said, “Be careful now, you hear?” She thrust the tin into his hands.
Josiah took it, setting his jaw hard in place, grinding his teeth so he would not allow a tear to be shed. “I will do my best, Ma, I promise.”
“I know. But stay clear of bad sorts. Pick your friends carefully.”
“I have friends.”
“Charlie Langdon is not your friend.”
“Ma,” Josiah protested.
“Don't argue. Be wary—the Langdons have always had a troublesome, untrustworthy streak. Now, go. Go, before I lock you inside the house and never let you leave.”
Josiah hesitated, then returned his mother's kiss, grabbed his gear, and headed out into the raging, cold wind, ignoring the thunder, lightning, and the sound of his mother sobbing behind the door like someone had died in her arms.
He ran toward town, toward the regiment that was waiting for him, hoping that his father would be waiting for him along the road. But he wasn't. His father was gone, and Josiah was left to face the most important day of his life without a word of advice, a comforting nod, or a wink of the eye that acknowledged an inkling of pride. He could barely contain his rage.
CHAPTER 1
November, 1874
 
The first shot didn't come as a surprise.
Josiah Wolfe and two other Texas Rangers from the Frontier Battalion, Scrap Elliot and Red Overmeyer, had tracked a lone Comanche scout easing into a dry creek bed, taking cover in a thin stand of brittle switchgrass.
The Comanche had seemed certain he hadn't been seen—but now he knew he was wrong. The trio had been aware of the scout's presence for more than a couple of miles, following after him, as stealthily as possible, to a spot where they were certain they had enough cover to engage the Indian and return him to camp for questioning, as they had been ordered to do by the captain of their company, Pete Feders.
Indians had been rustling cattle, and the Rangers had been charged with bringing a stop to the practice. Good, bad, or otherwise, there didn't seem much end to the rustling. Josiah hadn't objected to the assignment, but he did find it curious that Feders wanted a Comanche captured, not killed. The only thing Josiah could figure was the Rangers were getting a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later and Feders had been instructed by the higher-ups, more specifically either Major John B. Jones or Governor Richard Coke himself, to polish their reputation a bit. Didn't make much sense though, since killing Indians did more for their reputation than anything else.
Whatever the case, Josiah was in no position to question the motives behind the orders. He was in charge, a sergeant to the two men, one a fine weathered Ranger, the other a boy still trying to prove his manhood, as far as Josiah was concerned, as he eyed the Comanche cautiously.
A soft glow of fresh morning light covered the rolling ground leading to the creek, the land dropping slowly in the distance toward the struggling San Saba River. The cool November air was salty, and the creek the Indian lay prone in was a brine spring all used up, still crusty and white with alkali. Nothing could live off that soil, or at least it didn't make sense for any kind of critter to be able to, other than the mass of flittering insects that hovered inches off the ground.
Even on a cloudless day, there was a depressed, hopeless feel to the place. A few gnarly live oaks and mesquites dotted the hill country landscape, and the Rangers had taken refuge behind a small crop of boulders once Red Overmeyer was certain the Comanche scout had detected them.
The first shot pinged off the straight-edged rock just above Red Overmeyer's head, echoing in the crisp air, announcing to any creature or man within a few miles that something was amiss.
“Dang, that foul Indian damn near took my ear off.” Red raised his carbine in retaliation but did not immediately pull the trigger, looking to Josiah for permission to start returning fire.
“He's lookin' to do more than that,” Scrap Elliot said.
“Careful with your aim, men. Captain Feders was strict with his orders about bringing the raiders to justice. The scout needs to be interrogated.” Josiah focused on the spot where the shot had come from, then glanced over at Scrap Elliot. Scrap had an itchy trigger finger.
“You talk Comanche, Wolfe?” Scrap asked.
“Not my job, that's Feders's worry.”
“Justice ought not to be none of the captain's concern, either,” Scrap said. “He obviously ain't seen what a Comanche'll do to an innocent family.”
Scrap's family had been killed by Comanche, or so he claimed, and his anger still clouded his judgment, at least as far as Josiah was concerned—so he ignored the comment as best he could. There was no use arguing with the boy at the moment—though that's usually what happened when they were in each other's company.
“You can take that up with the captain,” Josiah said, raising his own Winchester rifle to aim.
BOOK: The Badger's Revenge
2.76Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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