The Gila Wars (24 page)

CHAPTER 44

The shaggy black horse didn't flinch when Josiah walked
up alongside it. Clipper, on the other hand, snorted and shook his head. For some reason the Appaloosa was annoyed, or seemed to be. He was probably hungry and tired, too, Josiah decided, as he made his way to the saddlebag on the other horse.

Once Tinker returned, he'd get the horses settled for the night, then get on with his own quest to put the battle behind him. Clipper was usually pretty easygoing, but it had been an unusual day—battle had its price on a beast, too.

With light bright enough from the torches to see clearly, Josiah made his way to Juan Carlos's saddlebag. He approached the man's horse as gently as possible, touching it with his fingertips, never breaking eye contact with it. “Easy there, fella. Easy,” he whispered.

It was all he could to do since there was very little he knew about the horse's temperament. The last thing he needed was to get kicked. Of course, the horse looked like it barely had enough energy to stand up, much less kick, but Josiah wasn't taking any chances.

Someone laughed in the distance, reminding Josiah that the camp was probably going to get even more lively as darkness came on. The fiddle music played on, and luckily, it looked like the night would be clear of weather. There was little to stand in the way of a calm evening, outside of the possibility of retaliation from Cortina. That was always a possibility, but unlikely.

McNelly had chosen the spot for the camp carefully, making sure it was naturally fortified by the cut of the land. Watch had most likely been doubled with the expectation that something might suddenly happen, as opposed to nothing—which is what Josiah was hoping for.

Certain now that the horse was calm, he unbuckled the saddlebag and opened it slowly, like it was a forbidden act or like he was opening a tomb of some sort.

Josiah had ignored the wrapped body tied over the saddle, tried not to consider that it was Juan Carlos wrapped inside the blanket. But he could not ignore the feeling that he was invading a man's privacy as he glanced over the contents of the saddlebag. He had yet to come face-to-face with his regret for his part in Juan Carlos's death, but that moment was coming.

The inside of the saddlebag looked to hold all of Juan Carlos's earthly belongings. There was a change of clothes, some extra ammunition, a packet of Arbuckle's coffee, and a satchel that looked to hold some papers and coins.

Josiah hesitated and looked around to make sure he was still alone, before he dove deeper into the satchel. There was no one to be seen, but he expected Tinker back at any moment.

The contents of the satchel were enough to make an honest man consider the prospect that he was the only person in the world who knew they were there. Josiah was no thief. He instantly knew that the money, and the full contents of the satchel, were not his property, but Pearl's—unless there were instructions, somewhere, that directed him otherwise.

After Captain Fikes had been killed, running the estate and managing all of his holdings fell to Pearl's mother, who was incapable in the ways of money management. And of timing. The financial markets had collapsed in 1873 because of a high degree of speculation in the railroad business and beyond. Pearl and her mother had previously lived a life of privilege, occupying a social status that brought the governor to their home, on more than one occasion, for dinner. Pearl herself was a debutante, raised with all of the fineries a young woman of wealth could expect in Austin.

As far as Josiah knew, Pearl was the only kin that Juan Carlos had. If the old Mexican had children, they were unknown. But then, Juan Carlos was a private man. It wasn't that long ago that Josiah had learned about Maria Villareal, the woman Juan Carlos loved.

There were bank notes in the satchel. Papers that had more zeros on them than Josiah could put together and come up with a sum—even though he was a good one with math and ciphers.

He heard footsteps coming up behind him, and hurriedly stuffed the papers back in the satchel, then closed it up, followed quickly by the saddlebag, which he pulled off the back of the shaggy black horse.

He wasn't sure if he understood what he had read, what he had seen, but if his hunch was true, Juan Carlos had been a very wealthy man. Wealthy enough to restore Pearl Fikes to her previous station in society, if she really was the sole beneficiary of the saddlebag.

CHAPTER 45

Verlyn Tinker stood back and supervised as two young
Rangers pulled Pip Howerson's body off Clipper's back.

Neither of Tinker's helpers made eye contact with or said a word to Josiah. They ignored him, acted like he didn't exist. One of the boys, Ned Johannsen, a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed fella, had raced against Pip many times—and lost, like everyone else. But Josiah had had little association with him, or the other Ranger, an older man, DuLane Smith, who helped around the chuck wagon and could stir up a decent batch of gravy if he was called on to do so.

Josiah watched them alongside Tinker, holding Juan Carlos's saddlebag securely in his hand. He hadn't said anything to Tinker about the contents and doubted that he would.

At the moment, the amount of money in the satchel was his secret to carry, a burden that he was glad to keep. What Juan Carlos would want done with the money was certain in Josiah's mind, if there were no further instructions to be found.

“Once we get the bodies inside, the boys can take the horses down to the corral and have them cared for, if that's all right with you?” Tinker said.

Josiah glanced at Clipper. There was nothing in his own saddlebag that warranted as watchful an eye as Juan Carlos's, so he nodded, giving silent permission. “I don't know what'll become of that old horse. I've never seen it before.”

“Up to the captain, I suppose.” Tinker stood stiffly as Smith and Johannsen eased their way past, carrying Pip's body to the tent. The wrapping had held tight, but there was no mistaking that they were carrying a body. “He might just let it wander off instead of taking on the expense of feeding it. Doesn't look like it'd be much use, other than flavoring a stew.”

Josiah twitched and cast a punitive glance at Tinker, but held his tongue. Whatever became of the horse had been of little concern to him up until that moment. He decided right then that it would be treated as property, just like the satchel. “I'll speak to the captain about it,” he said.

“That Juan Carlos's saddlebag?”

“Yes, I think I best hang on to it, too. I know his niece and aim to see to it that she gets it once I return to Austin. I figure it might be proper for her to decide the fate of that horse, too.”

“I suppose you're the best person for that.”

“I'm not so sure of that, but I think I might be the only man in camp to take on the task.”

Tinker shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

Silence fell between the two men then. The noise of the camp was hardly deafening, but it had a pulse, between the rhythm of fiddle music and men coming and going from the tent that had been set up with the washtubs.

The flames at the entrance of Tinker's tent flickered and burned consistently, matching with other torches and campfires that had been set in preparation for the coming of night.

Josiah hesitated as he tried to control his breathing. Leaving Juan Carlos behind was going to be much more difficult than he had thought.

Tinker must have been able to read the hesitation on Josiah's face. He put a hand gently on his shoulder and said, “There's nothing else you can do.”

“I know, it's just that . . .”

“Blame is a horrible thing to experience, Wolfe. I'm sure you did the best you could for your friend. No matter what you believe, whether there's an afterlife, or a greater beyond, the man's suffering is over. I will treat his remains like he was a member of my own family. It's the least I can do.”

“Thank you,” Josiah said. He tightened his grip on the saddlebag, squared his shoulders, then reached out and touched the blanket that held Juan Carlos's body and said his silent good-byes.

The return of Johannsen and Smith encouraged Josiah to turn and leave. Tinker was right; there was nothing left for him to do here.

“It wasn't your fault,” Tinker said, as Josiah walked away from Juan Carlos.

“Easy for you to say,” Josiah answered over his shoulder. “Easy for you to say what was my fault and what wasn't.”

Tinker said nothing in return, but DuLane Smith coughed loudly as he made his way to Juan Carlos.

Josiah tried to ignore the cough, hoping that it was nothing more than it seemed, and not a note of doubt. If it was truly doubt, then that attitude would spread through the Ranger camp like a sickness, tainting everything he said or did. His rank of sergeant would be in title only, any respect withheld and lost, because Juan Carlos died as a result of the decisions he had made.

* * *

The campfire was raging, with flames almost two feet
above the ground, reaching into the sky hungrily. A grate and an empty coffeepot sat off to the right of the fire, waiting for the flames to die out and the coals to burn orange as a cooking source. There were a few bedrolls scattered about, but there was no sign of any man in the spot Josiah had previously staked out as his own.

There had been five or six of them that had chosen to sleep out in the open, instead of pitching tents. Including Scrap, whose gear and bedroll were nowhere to be seen. It was like he had vanished, disappeared in the outer realm of the living, just like Juan Carlos had. But Josiah knew better. Scrap was avoiding him, was still angry. And Josiah couldn't blame him. He was still angry at himself for losing control.

He sat the saddlebag down and took a deep breath. All of the energy drained out of him then. The day took its toll, and he nearly collapsed to the ground. He sat as easily as he could, landing on his open bedroll.

He still held the saddlebag tightly, but he let it go, let it slide out of his grasp, then folded his knees up to his chest and rested his head face down on them.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. Clearing his mind, restraining his emotion, and tolerating the natural pain from the battle were his only goals. It must have been a while later when the shuffle of movement got his attention.

The fire had died down, and the grayness of the evening sky had turned to black. Orange coals pulsed, and the fiddle music had stopped completely. Enthusiasm from the day's events had settled down. Most likely, the baths and the meals had been completed, and the company was settling down to rest.

When Josiah looked up, the sight of Scrap Elliot standing before him, his arms folded and a cross look on his face, was the last thing he expected to see.

CHAPTER 46

The black eye Scrap was sporting could not be missed,
not even in the declining light. Nor could the anger that had settled on his hard-set jaw.

Once Josiah got his breath back, he decided to stay sitting. Putting himself face-to-face with Scrap, on even footing, didn't seem right. Besides, he just didn't have it in him to stand up for another fight. Enough was enough. “I didn't figure on seeing you too soon,” he said. There was a hint of exasperation in his voice, but he let that pass, too.

Scrap, on the other hand, had his fists balled, and he looked tight as a guitar string about to be strummed. “You figured wrong one more time, Wolfe. We got business to settle.”

There was no use putting off the inevitable. Josiah knew apologizing was the right thing to do—and obviously, the sooner the better for them both. “I'm sorry, Elliot,” he said, looking up, “I lost control of myself. The pain of my injuries and the exhaustion from the day just got the best of me. But I don't regret not letting you shoot that man. He was surrendering. I had to believe him. But I shouldn't have hit you, simple as that.”

“You don't give a damn that he killed the Mexican? I thought he was your friend.”

“I do care. But this isn't about Juan Carlos.”

“The hell it ain't. He's dead 'cause of you and your thick head.”

“I'm sorry, Scrap. That's all I can say to you. I was wrong in what I did, and I regret it. What else can I say?”

“Sometimes sorry ain't enough.” Scrap rubbed his cheek gingerly under the bruise. It looked like he'd stuck his eye in black axle grease.

“I suppose you're right. But fighting with me isn't going to change things. Like you said, Juan Carlos is dead. Doc Tinker is seeing to it that his body is taken care of. And that shiner is going to work itself out on its own. I don't have any hope that you'll just up and forgive me. I've known you too long not to know that you won't do that, but I can't offer you anything else but a promise that it will never happen again. You should be able to judge from my actions in the past that I aim to honor my word. Your anger can't take that away if you're being honest.”

“That's it then? You ain't gonna stand up and see this through? Fight me man-to-man? Let me have my chance at you?”

“See what through?”

“I deserve my chance to coldcock you. An eye for an eye. This here is biblical as far as I'm concerned. You owe me a grudge match.”

“Is that what you think will make you feel better about all of this? Fighting with me? Giving me a good solid punch at the end of a fighting day?”

“Fair is fair, Wolfe. I thought you was my friend. I mean we've been cross with each other before, but this was somethin' else. Somethin' else entirely. You stepped over a line. We was on duty, fightin' against the same enemy. I'm not the enemy, damn it! The Mexicans are, and here I am the one's that beat up.”

Josiah exhaled and stood up weakly. “You
are
my friend, Scrap. What happened out there wasn't about whether that's true or not. I wasn't myself, and neither were you. I've seen it before, felt it before, a long time ago when I fought in the War Between the States. More times than I like to remember. I thought those days were over, but I guess they're not. Never will be as long as there's somebody shooting at us and there's a battle of some kind raging about.”

“It's never happened to me before,” Scrap said, frowning.

“I know. Look,” Josiah said, extending his hand in an offer of friendship, “I'll say it again, I'm sorry. If you want to take a swing at me, then go ahead. Now's the time. I won't fight back.” He relaxed his hand and opened up both arms, giving Scrap a clear and easy path to swing through. It was as close to begging for forgiveness as Josiah was going to get.

“You ain't gonna fight back? You're just gonna stand there and take it?”

Josiah said nothing, just nodded yes.

There were no sounds around them, at least that Josiah could hear. The fire was silent other than an occasional crackle, waiting for another log, and the camping spot was vacant of other Rangers—they were alone, so no one could intervene. The rest of the boys were probably gathered around a larger fire, close to the chuck wagon, finishing up supper. But it was more than that. It was like the rest of the world had vanished. All that was important was standing right in front of Josiah. He meant to put an end to this scuffle with Scrap—properly, if that was possible.

Scrap reared back and clamped his teeth hard together like he was going to put all the power and force he could muster into the punch. But he stopped at the last second, didn't follow through. His eyes grew glassy, and a set of angry tears welled up, threatening to break out and stream down his cheek. He turned away then, not letting Josiah see that happen. “Damn it, Wolfe” was all he said.

Josiah dropped his head and allowed his arms to fold slowly to his sides. “Not everything that happens in a battle makes sense, Scrap. You pick up the pieces and put them back together the best you can. But there's no doubt that things are different. What happened today will change the lives of more than just us.”

He was still uncertain if Scrap had given up the desire to fight with him. He might have just been gathering himself and could charge like a territorial bull at any second. Either way, it didn't matter. Josiah had decided he'd take whatever came, though he would have preferred to have Scrap's friendship over his rage.

Scrap sighed, and his shoulders dropped. He stood facing the fire, his back to Josiah. “All I ever wanted was to fight in a battle. Earn my salt as a Ranger, you know? I figured I would have tall tales to tell in my old age, like them fellas that came back from facing the Northern aggressors, like you. I was too young for that fight. This is all I have, and it's not so pretty as I thought it'd be. That Mexican was kind to me in his own way, and now I guess I was pretty mean to him. I wish I could take back how I acted toward him.”

“Juan Carlos never took what you said to him to heart,” Josiah said. “He saw you as a spirited colt, and figured one of these days you'd tame down and end up leading us all through the days of blood and fighting. But I understand your regret. I made my own mistakes in that regard.”

Scrap turned around and faced Josiah with tears streaming down his face. “You never told me it would be this hard.”

“Some things you have to learn on your own. Don't you worry, you'll have your stories to tell. I'm certain of that.”

“Yeah, sure, I will.” Scrap drew up a deep breath and wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Blubberin' about like a baby. I sure won't tell anybody about that.”

“Maybe you should,” Josiah said.

Scrap glare at him, but it only lasted a second.

Only a few feet separated Josiah and Scrap, and it was easy to see in the glow from the embers of the fire just how young Scrap really was. Sometimes he forgot that Scrap was really just out of boyhood, and it had been a difficult, lonely journey for him.

“I'm sorry,” Josiah said, offering a handshake again.

Scrap took it this time, shook it firmly, then let go. “I'm pretty hungry. And you smell like a wallerin' pig. I say we get ourselves cleaned up and find some of that beef I'm smellin'.”

“Sounds good,” Josiah said, walking past Scrap, picking up the saddlebag. “But we need to keep an eye on this.”