The Gila Wars (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

The sun was fully up over the horizon, a white-hot orb
rising into the pale sky on a well-traveled path, offering little mystery to its intentions. The day would be hot and cloudless, just like the string of days before it.

Josiah and Scrap were both mounted on their horses, ready to go, but a stir of noise, a wave of notice, flowed over the camp, and caught their attention. Voices grew louder. A few men cheered. And there was a rush of arms and legs, a return to the captain's tent, by all of the men from the company. Knowing they were losing sunlight, and under strict orders from Captain McNelly to depart, Josiah hesitated, then decided to investigate, and see what all the hubbub was about.

Atop Clipper, it was easy to discern if there was a conflict, a reason to draw arms, or a celebration. It was clear there was no threat to the camp. Instead, the mail rider had made his way through the watch ring, set on delivering news from home, or wherever, to men lucky enough to know how to read or write, and to have a letter for them under the rider's charge.

Losing minutes in order to see if there was anything for him didn't seem to matter to Josiah now. He hoped for word about his son, Lyle. Anything concerning the boy would lighten his mood, making the coming days easier to face. The comfort that all was well in Austin, at home, would be a welcome relief from the hidden worry that Josiah carried with him every minute he was away from the boy.

The mail rider was a young man in his early twenties. His smooth face, and all of his clothes, were covered with a thick layer of dust, but cleaning up was not his first concern. He jumped from his horse and started digging in his satchel, pulling out a handful of letters, with little care to their fragility, as a mass of men crowded around him.

“Anson. Wilson. Franks.” The mail rider held up three letters, tapping his toe.

The company had gathered at the front of the tent just like they had when Robinson carted Rafael Salinas into the camp. Only this time, there was no sign of McNelly. Or Robinson for that matter. Just a collection of the boys, all as eager and impatient as Josiah for news from the outside world.

Next to Josiah, Scrap sat stiffly on Missy, staring off in the opposite direction from the mail rider, a hard look of disappointment already chiseled on his face. But he said nothing, didn't object to the delay in leaving. He was clearly giving Josiah room and acknowledgment of his need to know if there was a letter for him or not.

They both knew
some
news couldn't wait two or three days. Josiah had been called home from duty before because Lyle had taken ill, and if necessary, he would leave the company again. Orders or no orders. Lyle came first.

The rider spouted off another string of names, and every man ran up to him like he was passing out Christmas presents. Josiah was starting to think there was nothing for him, when the rider finally shouted out his name. “Wolfe!”

Josiah slid off the saddle easily, pushed through the crowd gingerly, and retrieved his letter. The mail rider handed it to him without hesitation, then went back to digging in the mail satchel.

The letter was heavy, more than one page, and there was no question who the sender was. It was from Pearl Fikes.

Without thinking, Josiah brought the letter gently to his nose and smelled a hint of perfume, a sweet toilet water that tickled distant memories and immediate desires that he had to squelch. It was spring, summer, all of the happy seasons rolled into one. All that was missing was a touch of skin, the satisfaction of Pearl's presence. Words would have to do.

Someone next to him pushed on Josiah's shoulder. “A letter from the sweetheart, huh, Sergeant Wolfe?” It was a boy about Scrap's age, Tom Darkson, new to the Rangers. Darkson had joined up recently, while Josiah was in Austin. New men came and went from the company on a regular basis. Time away from home was hard on a family man, or a man with ambitions of any kind. It was easy to understand. Rangering was not an easy life. Josiah knew little of Darkson except that he seemed like a decent sort, always willing to chip in no matter what the duty was, pitching tents, digging shit holes, or otherwise.

A flush of embarrassment crossed Josiah's face. He felt odd, at his age, courting. But there was no mistaking that he was in the midst of a serious courtship with a woman who had once held a much higher position in society than she did when Josiah last left her.

Pearl Fikes was the daughter of Captain Hiram Fikes, who was killed at the beginning of the Frontier Battalion. Through a series of tragic events of her own making, and some not, like the impact of the Panic of '73, Pearl's mother had managed to lose a fortune, a large estate, and end up in a sanatorium, nearly bankrupt. Pearl's uncle, Captain Fikes's half brother, was her benefactor now, seeing her through normal school so Pearl could support herself as a schoolteacher.

There was a large matter of distance between Pearl and Josiah in regard to their origins, but fate had brought them together, and there was no mistaking the strong attraction they held for each other. Still, Josiah was hesitant to follow his heart, hesitant to put his past behind him, bury Lily and the three girls once and for all, and start a new life, a new love. He knew he needed to give Lyle a family, instead of an absent father and a wet nurse for a mother, but it wasn't as easy for Josiah as he had once thought it might be.

“Enjoy your letter, Sergeant,” Tom Darkson said.

Josiah nodded and slipped the letter from Pearl into his pocket. He'd read it when the time was right, when he had a private moment. Now, in front of the company, was obviously not the place. Sharing his personal moments with the boys made him uncomfortable.

He climbed back up on Clipper and looked over to Scrap. The boy's jaw was set hard, and he sat straight as a door frame in his saddle.

“We can wait, see if there's a letter for you, Scrap,” Josiah said.

“Ain't gonna be nothin' for me, you know that, Wolfe.”

“We can wait five minutes. You don't know that for sure. Not since you left Myra Lynn in Austin.”

“With Blanche Dumont.”

“She could be under the care, or thumb, of worse people.”

Scrap exhaled loudly, then nodded. Myra Lynn was Scrap's sister. Scrap had told Josiah for a long time that his sister was a nun in Fort Worth, sent to a convent after the Comanche had killed their parents. It was an honorable story, except that it was a lie. Myra Lynn had left the convent as soon as she was able and found a life in the saloons, offering her body as her only means of making a living. Scrap was ashamed that his sister was a whore.

Blanche Dumont ran a whorehouse in Austin, a higher class operation than most, and Myra Lynn had been left to her care after being saved by Josiah from certain death. At the house she worked at now, Myra Lynn had regular doctor visits, and a certain number of hours a day were devoted to education. Blanche Dumont knew that the day would come for all of her girls when they would leave the flesh business behind, and she wanted them to be ready.

Scrap was still ashamed of Myra Lynn, but he had seemed glad, at least, to know where she was and that she was getting some kind of care.

“I don't think there's anywhere worse than a whorehouse other than bein' dead, but nobody asked me, did they?” Scrap said. “I can't be no more alone than I am now.” He glanced at Josiah's breast pocket. The corner of the letter was sticking out of it in plain sight.

“We'll wait.”

“Suit yourself.” Scrap shifted himself in the saddle, flicked Missy's reins, pulled her to the right, and headed slowly out of camp, his head down like he was riding into a heavy rainstorm.

Josiah watched Scrap leave, sitting still and staying put, listening closely as the mail rider resumed calling out names.

CHAPTER 5

Josiah caught sight of Scrap from nearly a mile away and
did little to encourage Clipper to catch up with the boy. He was riding slow, unassuming, not in a hurry himself to slide back into the life of a spy.

By the time Josiah caught up with Scrap, the sun was nearly at its peak. The terrain surrounding the camp, and the Arroyo Colorado, made for slow going at first, though Josiah was not in a rush to leave the company behind him.

Clipper was no mountain horse, and he didn't need to be, but there were steep rises and wind-cut walls of solid granite and limestone that would have made the journey difficult for any horse. Luckily a good stretch of the ride to the small town of Arroyo was on flat ground—so flat that it was like a giant iron had fallen from the sky, smoothing the ground all of the way to the beaches and, ultimately, to the Gulf of Mexico. Storm surges and heavy rains made the ground swampy and salty, and the air smelled of rot, stinging inside the nose until it became familiar.

“You should have stayed a little while longer,” Josiah said, once he brought Clipper nose to nose with Missy.

“Did I miss a brawl?” Scrap still wore a solid look of disappointment and discontent on his young face.

There were times when Josiah thought Scrap looked ten years younger, like a twelve-year-old instead of a young man in his early twenties. He lacked any kind of facial hair, none that grew on a regular basis to age himself or disguise his true identity. And his deep blue eyes lacked depth, experience, or the ability to hold back the truth of his feelings. Sometimes they looked black and vacant, which worried Josiah more than he liked to admit.

“No, no, there was no fight that I know of. The boys were giddy, glad for the mail, a touch of reality before the real fight with Cortina comes.”

The sun beat on the back of Josiah's neck. There was a slight breeze, and the taste of salt in the air was thicker the closer they got to the ocean. There was relief from the discomfort of the ride, of the uncertainty ahead of them, to a small degree.

Spending time some months back on the ocean, learning how to net fish with his friend and Pearl's half uncle, Juan Carlos, had been one of the most calming and relaxing times for Josiah in the last few years. He had no idea where Juan Carlos was now, but since the old Mexican, as Josiah commonly referred to him, also worked in the shadows for Captain McNelly, he could show up at any time. And usually did.

“Then why in the heck should I have stayed around, Wolfe? So I could ride out with you?” Scrap asked.

“Might not've hurt.”

“Are you bein' coy with me, Wolfe?”

Josiah shrugged, then dug into his back pocket, pulled out a letter, and handed it to Scrap. “This came for you.”

Scrap stared at the letter, not making any effort to take it from Josiah's hand. He shook his head. “Who's it from? Can't be for me. You must be mistaken, Wolfe. Not many of my people know much about readin', writin', or my whereabouts.” he said.

“There's no mistaking it's for you, Scrap. It says Robert Earl Elliot as clear as day on the envelope. That's you, isn't it?”

“To my family.”

Josiah dangled the letter from his fingers, offering it further to Scrap. “Take it.”

Scrap sighed and took the letter. Missy and Clipper's trot matched pace. Sand flies were starting to pick up at the drop of their hooves. The two horses were accustomed to each other's company, but their tails started to swish with annoyance.

“It can't be good news,” Scrap said.

“How do you figure?”

“Because it never is.” Scrap let the reins fall from his hand, and Missy came to a stop. He tore the letter open and perused the writing.

Sun beamed through the parchment, and from Josiah's view, the letter looked like elegant chicken scratch. He had no desire to know the contents of the letter if Scrap didn't want him to, so he looked away, to the hazy horizon in the distance.

“It's from Blanche Dumont,” Scrap continued. “She says Myra Lynn is doin' good, learnin' her letters, but not good enough to write a full-out letter just yet. She just wants to keep in touch. To let me know she appreciates the new chance at life she has.”

A slight smile crossed Josiah's face as he watched Scrap read on, and his body loosen up at the same time. “I'm glad to hear it.”

Scrap stopped reading, exhaled loudly, and stuffed the letter inside his breast pocket as gently as he could.

“I ain't got family, outside of Aunt Callie, that cares much about me, Wolfe. I thought I done lost my sister to the sins of the earth. I never figured a woman like Blanche Dumont could be a . . .”

“Good influence?” Josiah asked, finishing the sentence before Scrap could.

Scrap nodded. “Yup. I figured a woman who runs a whorehouse ain't interested in nothing more than money to be made on the backs of the girls she keeps. Why would she give an owl's hoot if a girl can read or better herself? I don't know. It seems that business back in Austin might've turned out for the best. Odd ain't it? Trouble turns out bringin' sunshine. I mean my sister, well, she's still doin' the unthinkable, but at least I know where she is, and that she's cared for.”

“Not everything is as it seems.”

“I guess not,” Scrap said. “I guess not. What about you, Wolfe? Are you going to read your letter?”

Josiah smiled but didn't answer, just urged Clipper to move on like he hadn't heard a word Scrap said. His letter from Pearl was something to savor, read at the right time, and not share—even with Scrap.

There was a glimmer in the distance, and a familiar collection of shadows caught Josiah's eyes. Arroyo beckoned, standing in the flats like an oasis, or a mirage, he wasn't sure which. No matter. He just hoped he'd find what he was looking for, sooner rather than later. Another four-month stint as a spy was unimaginable, more like a prison sentence than an act of duty. It had taken him a long time to see the sunshine himself after that bit of trouble, as Scrap called it. He might not be so lucky this time around.

* * *

The cantina was like every other cantina Josiah had seen
in South Texas. The walls were made of adobe and shellcrete, ground up seashells formed over a building's frame to give it strength and depth, and the structure had one story and very few windows.

It was dim inside, almost dark, the sunshine cutting into the open front door suspiciously and unwelcome. A water turbine–driven fan whirled overhead, and a lone sconce flickered at the right corner of the dilapidated bar, reflecting off a cracked mirror that cut the small room in half. A slight wisp of coal oil smoke streamed upward to the blackened ceiling.

There was a distinct smell inside the cantina, yeast mixed with a series of spices, that emanated from a pot sitting on a woodstove in the corner that served as the kitchen. Josiah knew they served food at this cantina; he had been here before, passing through, on a mission to establish his name, Zeb Teter, in the territory, as a hide trader, on the lookout for goods. No one bought into his charade then, and he had moved on quickly to Corpus Christi. He hoped he was more successful this time around.

There was no music, no noise, other than the whirl of the fan, and the simmering pot on the stove, bubbling casually like a permanent resident.

Two men sat at the bar, Mexicans, both without hats but each with a full complement of ammunition in his gun belt, their backs to the door. Each man wore a revolver on both hips and carried a sheathed knife. The men looked up at the mirror as Josiah and Scrap entered the bar. They exchanged an unconcerned glance, then stared back down to their beer mugs without saying a word. There was no one else to be seen inside the cantina.

Josiah stopped just inside the door, taking in as much as he could. He knew little about the cantina, who owned it, whether it was friendly to Anglos or not. His assumption, based on his last visit, was that it was not a friendly place at all.

Most places in these parts weren't. Still, if there was a place in Arroyo to gather some information, to stop along the way, this was it. The town, if it could be called that, had been around for less than twenty years, yet it looked old, on the verge of collapse, dying. Any exposed metal, on the hinges of doors and windows, was coated with rust, like it was a rash, bubbling red, breaking open, but so dry there was nothing left inside to seep out.

It was at times like this that Josiah really felt out of his depth. He spoke little Spanish, having picked up what he could from Ofelia and by being exposed to it, never taking the lead and learning the language, making it his own. Scrap wouldn't utter a word understood by Mexicans other than what automatically came out of his mouth. Joining them together as spies made sense to Josiah. Captain McNelly saw the two of them as a pair instead of two individuals—there were skills they were both deficient in. But they had also both saved each other in some fashion. Maybe it was this that showed, and the one thing the captain had counted on to keep them safe and get the information he needed.

Josiah walked into the cantina confidently and pulled up a stool next to the Mexican nearest the stove. “
Hola
,” he said with a nod, then tapped the front brim of his Stetson.

The Mexican was thin-faced, with angry brown eyes, and he didn't flinch when he was spoken to, didn't turn his head toward Josiah at all, just stared into his beer. His face was pockmarked, his dark brown skin ruddy and moist with sweat that looked permanent. His mustache was bushy and unkempt, black as a black cat's tail, and he looked like he had been riding on the trail for a while. There was dust on his shoulders and in every crease of his shirt.

The other Mexican, a bit older than the first, with gray showing in his thick black hair, ignored Josiah with just as much enthusiasm as his friend.

“Is there anyone working here?” Josiah asked. He could see Scrap in the mirror, standing in the center of the room, next to a support beam, between two empty tables, his hands at his sides, his holsters open, wearing a blank, emotionless gaze on his face.

“Anglos aren't welcome here,” the Mexican said. His teeth were clenched.

“I'm looking for hides. I deal through Hector Morales in Corpus Christi.”

“Hector Morales is dead. Juan Cortina had his tongue cut out for betraying him to the Rangers.” The Mexican turned to face Josiah then, his eyes hard, the muscle under his lip trembling slightly, like he was about to say something else, or erupt in anger.

Josiah took a deep breath, let his hand slip down to his Peacemaker—but he was too slow.

The other Mexican pushed the stool back with a jump, pulling his gun at the same time, swirling around to face Scrap.

Scrap didn't hesitate, didn't blink. Josiah had no time to issue commands, to tell the boy what to do. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

In half a breath, Scrap had pulled his Colt Army .45 from his holster and fired the first round, beating the Mexican on the draw.

The echo of the shot sounded like a cannon going off right behind Josiah's ear. He saw the muzzle flash in the mirror, then heard the bullet rip into flesh and shatter bone as it struck the Mexican in the forehead, sending him spiraling back toward the bar. Blood and cartilage exploded outward, a surprise, but so certain and sudden that the man didn't have the life in him to scream out in pain. Death came quickly, in a sudden flinch, at the hand of a boy with no patience or trust for Mexicans with guns.

To make certain that his aim was on target, Scrap pulled the trigger again, catching the man just under the chin as he fell backward. The Mexican crashed to the floor in a lifeless heap as his own blood rained down on him.

The other man, the one next to Josiah, was not afraid, showed no fear. His hands were out of sight. Time ticked in slow breaths, quickening heartbeats, and eyelids fighting not to blink. The smell of gunpowder overtook every other smell, even conquering the metallic smell of blood.

The outside world had ceased to exist for the three living men inside the cantina.

Josiah stumbled away from the Mexican, out of range of his hands if he chose to go for his knife, but still close enough to see his rage.

Scrap's reflection flinched in the mirror, his attention suddenly drawn away from Josiah and the Mexican, by something near the stove. A shadow of movement caught his eye.

Josiah had not seen it before now, but there was a dark alcove, a pantry to serve the kitchen, and presumably store beer kegs, too, just off to the left of the stove. It would make sense that there was a door there, leading in and out to an alleyway.

The barkeep appeared, a silhouette of a person holding a shotgun, aimed directly at Josiah and the Mexican. The size and shape of the man was inconsequential; his intention was expressed vividly by the direction of the shotgun's barrel.

It was a lot to take in in such a short amount of time. The Mexican had not lost focus, had not been distracted. In another blink of an eye, he had both guns out of his holster, trained on Josiah.