The Badger's Revenge (8 page)

Truth be told, the cook was probably alarmed by the commotion in the lobby, fidgety as a rabbit to loud noises, uncertain about what violent act was coming his way next, and wondering if the violence, as it probably had in the past, was going to be directed toward him.

Just as Josiah ran by the Chinaman, not slowing down since he didn't sense the man as an immediate threat, the short little man shook his head no, put his hand out, and said, “Not that way.”

Josiah stopped dead in his tracks, trying to catch his breath. “It's the only way out.”

“They probably have a man there waiting.”

“Where then?”

“Upstairs. Go to the end of the hall, jump across the roof.”

Footsteps rushed closer, pushing through the office just as Josiah's had. The rumble on the wood floor was like thunder, a coming storm, the ground shaking, but instead of lightning, there were rifles and anger, a score to settle from days long past that could not be solved in a gentlemanly way.

“Then what?” Josiah asked.

The Chinaman shrugged his shoulders, then walked back into the kitchen. One of the pots was boiling over.

Josiah decided to take a chance with what was behind the door. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop sounded like certain death to him.

 

 

The air was cold. Night had not hesitated but had
fallen in a thick black curtain, covering everything in its path as if a load of coal dust had fallen unexpectedly from the sky. It was not cold enough to snow—that would have been all too rare, but the glow of light would have been welcome.

Josiah did not rush headlong out the door.

He pushed it open slowly, as slowly as he could, looking over his shoulder with sweat pouring from his forehead, the burning in his eyes matching the burning in his calf. He was certain his boot was full of blood.

He did not have time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he slipped out of the door, sliding along the outside hotel wall, gripping his weapon, the simple rock, as hard as he could, hoping upon hope that the Chinaman was wrong.

Maybe there had not been time for the man, or men, to reach the back of the hotel.

At the moment, Josiah's gamble seemed to be paying off. But he had to decide quickly what to do next.

He could make a blind run for it.

There seemed to be houses in the distance, oil lamps just starting to burn in the windows. There were no other tall buildings behind the hotel. Nor was there an alley as there was behind the saloon. Since he had no idea where he was and had no knowledge of the lay of the land in and around Comanche, running into the darkness seemed to be a huge gamble.

Or he could find a place to hide and hope he would be safe.

It only took Josiah a second to decide to run.

But the decision came a second too late.

The back door of the hotel pushed open and slammed against the wall with a loud bang. The darkness was immediately cut with bright, intense light, shadows, movement, and the smell of anger and sweat, as well as that of fresh coal oil. A torch had been lit.

Clarmont pushed out the door, leading with his rifle.

Without a moment's hesitation, Josiah swung the rock as hard as he could, smashing it into the man's skull with as much force as he could muster.

He didn't want to maim the man; he wanted to stop him dead in his tracks. It was a life for a life—war had been proclaimed, in Josiah's mind, the moment his hands had been bound and he'd been taken captive by Big Shirt and Little Shirt.

Clarmont yelled out in astonishment and pain. His surprise was mixed with the sound of shattering bone, blood escaping his brain through any avenue possible; ears, mouth, and nose.

The damage done, Josiah let go of the rock, and tackling him with all of his remaining strength, he jumped at Clarmont, who was already halfway to his knees.

Josiah only wanted one thing now: Clarmont's rifle.

The rifle looked to be a Spencer repeating carbine, in which case, if Josiah was right and the man had a fully loaded the rifle, he would have seven shots to protect himself and flee.

There was no mistaking that Liam O'Reilly and the Comanche brothers were not far behind.

Tackling the man was another risk, another gamble, but it was the only option Josiah had. A rock against a gang of men was less than practical. He needed a gun to protect himself.

Clarmont fell to the ground with a heavy thud, now silent. More footsteps followed down the hall past the hotel kitchen, and two more men pushed out the door. One of them was holding a blazing torch, trying to see what was going on. The other one had a new model '73 Winchester in each hand, cocked and ready.

Josiah had judged the motion and gravity of the tackle correctly when he dove at Clarmont, and he was able to grab the Spencer before it hit the ground.

And as he rolled, all of the action had loosened the rope on his wrists, and it fell away completely with one final hearty shake, freeing his hands once and for all.

In a quick series of maneuvers, Josiah was up in a squat position and firing the first round, catching the man with the two Winchesters square in the right shoulder.

The man fell back into the hotel, knocked back partially by the force of the shot, but also by his own will, realizing that the upper hand was no longer theirs, since Clarmont was lying on the ground, nothing more than a mound of lifeless flesh, his lifeblood quickly draining out of the gaping hole in his head—and Josiah now possessed a rifle of equal power.

For good measure, Josiah fired off another shot. His aim was certain, catching the man just above the ankle, fully eliminating his ability to give chase.

The man with the torch also jumped back into the hall, tossing the flaming club toward Josiah.

Josiah dodged the flame and realized that in freeing his own hands, the man was set on taking up one of the fallen Winchesters.

There was a gang rushing the hall behind the injured man, and a rousing crowd had fallen out into the street in front of the hotel in search of the latest round of trouble to befall Comanche.

A fire bell clanged, and in the distance, a trio of dogs started barking. And to add to the chaos, there were more rising voices, screams and shouts and orders, and the sound of gathering horses.

Josiah took a deep breath, then turned and ran toward the edge of the darkness as fast as he could, trying with all of his might to ignore the growing pain from the gunshot wound in his calf and the weariness that was rapidly draining his energy.

His failing physical capacity was being overridden by the heavy rush of fear that had settled in him, along with the strong need to survive, with the warning of certain death or something worse: recapture by the Comanche and Liam O'Reilly's gang of men.

 

 

A solid wall of black clouds hid the moon. Pain
ran up Josiah's leg like it was venom from a rattlesnake bite. Sweat from exertion, fear, and pain mixed and dripped onto his lips, reminding him of his thirst, of his need to find someplace to hide.

Buildings were nothing more than shadows, and there was no way he was going to rush into a house with a burning lamp set in the window, causing more fear and unwelcome attention. He wanted to avoid human contact at all costs.

There was still a rise of orders and furious movement behind him, in the center of town and surrounding the Darcy Hotel.

Josiah worried about the little girl, certain he would be responsible for her nightmares once her head hit the pillow and sleep swept her away from the violent world she walked in during the day.

Running full out at night came with its own causes for serious concern.

A hole could take him down, making him an easy capture for Liam O'Reilly. Or he could stumble over a watering trough, smack his head on an unseen post, and die trying to escape. But thankfully, Josiah had a little experience running at night.

It was one of the skills that had saved him during the war.

Once he reached a certain level of fear or anger or need to flee, it was like his body no longer belonged to him but moved on its own accord, his feet dancing on pure instinct, his eyes cutting a path that a cat would have been lucky to see.

He could only hope that his skills would rise from wherever they slept and save his life one more time, like they had in Chickamauga and Knoxville.

His heart was beating so hard Josiah was certain his chest was rolling like a wheat field facing the wind, the rhythm of blood wild and fast, the organ preparing to jump out of his skin if he ran any faster. But he did. He had to. A quick look over his shoulder gave him even more reason to fear. There were several riders on horses, all carrying torches, heading right for him.

He zigged, then zagged, pumping his legs furiously, the concern about his beating heart gone—he was only worried about saving his hide. Plain and simple, that seemed like a slim possibility.

Ahead, he saw two barns, both small—three or four stalls at the most. The closest barn sat a fair distance from a well-lit house. The other one, a run of about five hundred yards, sat in near darkness. If there was anyone at the house it seemed to belong to, then the barn looked empty, dark, and unattended. He hoped his instinct was right.

Josiah gripped the Spencer, knowing for certain he had five shots left, and made his way to the farthest barn, sure that he was about to make his last stand.

The posse thundered by the barn, but it was easy
to tell that a few of the riders had dropped off to conduct a close search.

Josiah could only hope that there wasn't a discernible trail of blood for them to follow. He'd scooted his feet upon entering the barn, wiping away as best he could any sign of entrance in the ankle-deep straw. But he knew that any man who could track a rabbit on hard dirt could see right through his feeble ploy to hide any evidence of his existence.

A dark corner of the barn beckoned as Josiah was able to adjust his eyesight. He had to trust his feet to find a high pile of straw and hay.

He burrowed inside, destroying well-established mice and rat tunnels. The smell of rot and rodent piss was strong, but it didn't matter, he could go no farther. He would die where he lay, or live to fight another day. It was that simple.

Regulating his breathing took a second, then he pushed the barrel of the Spencer to the edge of the pile of straw and cleared enough of it away to have a line of sight to the huge double doors that he'd just entered through.

There was nothing to do now but wait for his pursuers.

He was too close to town for them not to check the barn. It was just a matter of time before they came looking for him. Through the thinly planked walls he could hear the slow and steady trot of horse hooves, circling the barn, looking for any sign of him.

A small glint of light passed by the other side of the barn; a torch and murmured voices.

The loss of blood had weakened Josiah to the point of fearing for his next breath.

Not only did his leg hurt, but the pain had traveled all the way to his chest, even reigniting the tender pain of the old knife wound.

Chills began to travel across every inch of his skin. He was sweating profusely. The inside of his mouth tasted like old dirt, metallic and unhealthy. It was the taste of death, and Josiah knew it.

But he held his breath and tried his best not to move, as the barn door creaked open. Odd thing was, this all seemed very familiar to Josiah, reminded him of fighting the Northern Aggressors in Antietam a lifetime ago. As it was, this was not the first time he had thought his shallow breath might be the last one he'd ever take.

The war never left him—or any man who saw battle, for that matter. Most days he could push away the ghostly battle screams, disassociate himself with suitable tasks of some kind to make the memory vanish.

But today was not most days.

The only comfort that came to his mind now was the pure and true fact that he had lived to see another day—then, and hopefully now.

Survival of the battle in Georgia came mostly at luck's hand. Most men didn't have such good fortune—his mother prayed for him, he knew that, but he couldn't credit her holy actions as the cause of his survival.

Antietam was a bloody day, the casualties so deep it was said that nearly eighty percent of the Texas Brigade had been killed on that single day. It was a larger loss than any other brigade suffered in the whole war, on either side, from beginning to end. And Josiah had been there in the thick of it. He still bore his own scars from the battle, though he tried to ignore them. Now it was impossible not to consider his own mortality, just like he had in the last moment of retreat to the West Woods at the end of the battle, broken, bleeding, running for his life, stumbling over more dead men than he had ever seen in his life, or hoped to ever see again.