The Badger's Revenge (3 page)

The rifle was a model '73, not as difficult to handle as the Sharps 50 he used to carry, the rifle Overmeyer still called his own, but still, the rise of his arm brought a quick pain that ran across his chest like a hot piece of iron burning him from the inside out.

The shot of pain was a reminder to him that it hadn't been so long ago that he'd been stabbed in the left shoulder by a knife in an attack by a Kiowa in Lost Valley. It was July when that skirmish had happened, and the wound was scarred over now, healed thinly, he thought, but a quick reaction still brought pain, telling him the wound wasn't as healed it appeared to be. It was still tender. Sometimes, he wondered if it would ever be healed at all.

“You all right, there, Wolfe?” Red asked.

Josiah nodded. “Take a shot. Let him know we mean business. Elliot, scoot around to the other side of this rock, and see if there's a way in behind him. We'll get him pinned in, then we'll take him alive like the captain wants.” He hoped that neither Red nor Elliot sensed his own discomfort or his nervousness. This was his first real engagement under fire since he'd been wounded.

“Careful now,” Red warned. “There'll be more than one. Always is. I ain't never seen none of them scouts stray too far apart.”

“You said there was only one,” Scrap said.

“Is. For the moment. Like those flies, there, though. Do more damage in a swarm than alone. No such thing as just one Comanche scout. No such thing as just one Comanche, period.”

“Ought to just kill the savage, and be done with it,” Scrap replied.

Josiah nodded forcefully beyond the rock, silently ordering Elliot to get a move on.

“He'll learn to trust what I say one of these days,” Red Overmeyer said.

Red was an old hand when it came to dealing with Indians. Probably fifty years old, or older, he wore a long beard—faded red, closer to orange with age—that made him look more like a mountain man on a beaver hunt than a Ranger out scouting for a Comanche raiding party. Red's stained buckskin shirt looked nearly as old as he was, and it barely covered his rounded belly that hung over a leather belt. The shirt looked like it was about to pop apart at any second. A full complement of bullets sat waiting underneath his belly, and a Bowie knife sat firmly on his hip in a hand-tooled leather scabbard that looked old and worn, too, from plenty of use.

It was not uncommon among Rangers to dress in the fashion to which they were comfortable, since there were no required uniforms.

One of the appeals for Josiah of signing up back in May, when the Frontier Battalion came into proper being, was the lack of regimentation. He'd had enough of tight military control in his younger life when he'd served in the First Infantry, the Texas Brigade, in the War Between the States, and he didn't care for that kind of strictness in his life these days.

Red rarely talked about his encounters with Indians, and Josiah suspected he had lived among the plains Indians at one time or another, married to a Sioux or Shoshone, judging from the minimal tales he told. Red loved Indian women, which was obvious from the way he spoke of them.

Regardless, it was good to have Overmeyer along, his knowledge paramount in assisting the cause of taming the Comanche, even though it was not a battle Josiah had ever chewed at the bit to engage in in the first place—fighting Indians. Staying close to Austin, a day-and-a-half ride away to the north of the capital, was as important to him as remaining a Texas Ranger. At least, until now.

Elliot had not moved from his spot, almost daring Josiah to formally command him to do as he was told.

Josiah nodded again, more firmly, his eyes hard as the metal that had been forged to make the rifle barrel he was holding.

With a loud “Humpf!” Elliot spit on the ground, glared back at Josiah, and did as he was told, carefully edging along the rock, his own Winchester cocked and at the ready.

Josiah thought Scrap Elliot an impetuous sort, never really trustworthy with his intentions or mood, but
always
trustworthy when it came to shooting and horse riding.

The kid, that's how Josiah thought of the boy, since he was hardly twenty years old, had certain talents that had proven effective in the recent past, and even though Josiah rarely said anything aloud, he admired Scrap's talents to a high degree. They'd saved his life more than once. His history with Elliot allowed for a certain discounting of youthful enthusiasm. He worried now, though, if he could hold Elliot down, get him to toe the line, and let the plan at hand fall into place. So far, events were occurring without any hint of trouble.

“That boy's gonna either get us all kilt one of these days,” Red said, “or be a hero in the annals of time. Got the spirit of a warrior, and the brains of a thick piece of granite.”

Josiah chuckled—and at the same time the Comanche fired another shot into the clump of rocks. The chuckle faded quickly, as he and Red both returned fire.

White dust popped up into the air along the dry creek bed. The scout's rifle went silent almost immediately.

Josiah pulled back and faced Red. “You think he's hit?”

“Won't know till I see a dead body. Sneaky bastards, these Comanche are. You know that, though, don't you, Wolfe?”

Josiah nodded, listened for Scrap, and heard nothing.

There was little wind, no birdsong, not even a hawk lifting higher on the warm currents in the clear blue sky. The day had yet to fully grab hold, but it was going to be a warm one, especially for this time of year. It was like they had stumbled into a desert, devoid of any life at all.

He peered over the rock again, and saw no movement along the creek.

“Anything?” Red asked.

“Nothing.”

“I'm worried about that Elliot now.”

“Me, too.”

“Should I go after him? Take a look and see if I got lucky and kilt that there scout?”

“Yes. Go.”

Red pulled himself out of the cranny he'd positioned himself in and disappeared behind the same rock Scrap had.

It only took a second for the silence to return. Now it belonged entirely to Josiah. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

He looked over the rock again, angling the barrel of the Winchester toward the creek.

Unconsciously, he balanced the barrel with his left hand, eased his finger onto the trigger, and let his right hand fall so it was touching the butt of his pistol, a singleaction Colt .45-caliber, most often called by him, and other Rangers, the Peacemaker. Settling his arm as he had had allowed the burning sensation around his wound to fade away, but not fully disappear.

This time, he saw movement, but it was only a snake, a small rattler slithering along the white, sandy bank of the dry creek. It was hunting quietly, searching for anything that moved. It was a futile quest as far as Josiah could tell.

He was starting to believe Red had gotten lucky with the shot . . . until he sensed a bit of movement behind him.

“Don't move,” a strong male voice said forcefully, but almost in a hush. “Or I'll shoot you dead right here. Let the guns go—but don't turn around until I tell you. Understand?”

Josiah nodded. He could not help but catch sight of his oppressor out of the corner of his right eye as he did as he was told. It was a Comanche. The same scout he'd thought—had hoped—Red had killed. There was a rifle in the Indian's steady hand, pointed directly at Josiah's head.

There was no way he could spin and shoot, just kill the Indian outright. There was no room, and he knew better than anyone that he was not fast enough to pull off such a feat.

First, Josiah pulled the Winchester down over the rock and let it fall out of his grasp. The rifle kicked up a cloud of dust at Josiah's feet, but not enough to distract the Indian, nor enough to create an opportunity. Josiah's options were fading fast.

He was curious, though, why the Comanche didn't just shoot him. Most would have. Normally in this circumstance he'd already be a dead man, if everything were as it seemed.

“Now the pistol,” the Indian said.

The scout's English was halting and had the regular start-stop that accompanied many of the Indian speech patterns Josiah had heard in the area. Probably taught by Christian missionaries in an attempt to civilize them. No chance of that, Josiah thought, not at the moment, not with a war taking place north, up Red River way.

He pulled the Peacemaker slowly out of the holster and eased it to the ground next to the rifle.

“The knife in the belt, too.”

Again, Josiah did as he was told. He had no more weapons, other than his fists and. hopefully, time—time enough for Red and Scrap to return and discover the lone scout and rescue him. For that reason, each of his movements was slow and methodical, not out of fear, but out of hope for an opportunity to strike back at the Comanche.

“Now,” the scout said, “take off your boots and turn around slowly.”

Josiah did as he was told, emptying his boots of dirt, but no weapons as the Comanche had suspected, then faced the Indian for the first time.

There was no recognition. He had never seen the scout, or the other Comanche who stepped out of a shadow behind the rock where Scrap and Red had disappeared, a rifle in his hand, aimed directly at Josiah's head.

Both men had long black hair, a feather braided into the right side of the taller one. They both wore shirts that looked to be made for an Anglo instead of an Indian; gingham, light blue, with a mosaic of circles and squares. The second Indian's shirt was faded red, striped instead of dotted with shapes.

Each wore necklaces that draped low from his neck and looked more like breastplates than jewelry, except the necklaces stopped at the top of the gut and were made of wood or a smooth bone, it was hard to tell which, instead of metal. Both men wore long pants and riding boots. These two looked more like outlaws than Comanche rustlers, and for a moment Josiah was confused.

“Hold out your hands,” the original scout, and taller of the two, ordered Josiah.

The second one, who Josiah decided was taking orders and was subservient to the tall scout, rushed forward and quickly bound Josiah's hands with a heavy rope.

“Don't think your friends are going to rescue you. It is too late for that, Josiah Wolfe,” the scout said, a slow smile coming to his face. “Put your boots back on.”

The mention of his own name surprised Josiah, but he tried not to show it. “You killed them?”

“Not yet.”

“I didn't hear a thing. Why should I believe you?”

“Why do you think I care if you believe me or not? I am the one holding the gun at your head,” the scout said.

The short Comanche yanked the rope tight around Josiah's wrists, finishing off the binding so tightly it nearly cut off the circulation.

It was all he could do to not cry out in pain. “How do you know my name?” Josiah asked through clenched teeth.

“We have a mutual friend.”

“And who would that be?”

“You call him Liam O'Reilly. My people call him the Badger.”

The Comanche pulled Josiah out into the open.
Josiah gave up any thought of struggle when he saw that Scrap and Red were tied to opposite sides of a towering elm tree. They were bound tightly with a heavy rope that looked more suited to being used as a hangman's noose than holding two Texas Rangers captive.

The trunk of the ancient tree was so broad that Josiah doubted that a big man like Red Overmeyer could get his thick arms all the way around it, but it didn't matter—Red and Scrap were tied to the tree with their backs to it, their stiff and unmoving arms pinned tightly at their sides. They were facing opposite directions, their mouths gagged securely with their own kerchiefs. Rescue or death would be their only escape.

Death was not an option as far as Josiah was concerned. Even less so now that the name Liam O'Reilly had been mentioned. If it were possible for Josiah to feel hate against a man, then there was no question that he felt that emotion for O'Reilly. The redheaded Irishman was as mean as a motherless snake and just as unpredictable, too. Even though Charlie Langdon, the leader of the gang that O'Reilly originally belonged to, was long dead and buried, his power and anger still seemed to haunt Josiah, this time in the form of O'Reilly. It was not that long ago that Langdon and O'Reilly had gone after Josiah's son, Lyle, and held him as bait to lure Josiah home. Langdon was captured and eventually hanged. O'Reilly escaped, stepping headfirst into the leadership role that Langdon had left vacant.

Now there was cause to be concerned about the past meeting the present.