This book is dedicated to the memory of my uncle,
Robert “Bob” Byrne,
the first writer to ever inspire me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No book ever gets written alone, and no book ever finds its way to a reader alone. As I wrote this book, several of the bookstores that had previously supported my work closed their doors, and it didn’t seem right not to acknowledge their passing.
I walked in the doors of The Mystery Company in Carmel, Indiana, for the first time in the spring of 2004 after making my first professional short story sale to a western anthology (Texas Rangers, edited by Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg, Berkley Books, 2004). Jim Huang, the owner, happily agreed to stock the book and host a signing for me—my first. The Mystery Company has been my “home” bookstore ever since. The staff has always promoted my work, and I count many of them as my friends. Thank you, Jim, Austin, Edna, Moni, Jennie, Jaci, and everyone else at TMC for all that you’ve done for me over the years. You all will be sorely missed.
The Wild in Noblesville, Indiana, was primarily a children’s bookstore, but the owner, Jane Shasserre Mills, welcomed my books and hand-sold a great many of them. Noblesville will not be the same without you or the store, Jane.
I briefly met the staff at the Waldenbooks store in my hometown of Anderson, Indiana, but Eric and Stephanie went above the call of duty to host a great book signing for me. Thank you. I hope you both have found careers that allow your love of books to carry on.
Finally, to all of the booksellers who have been gracious and kind to me, especially Margi Kingsley and the staff at the Noblesville Barnes & Noble, who are still fighting the good fight, making sure books find their way to readers’ hands every day, thank you for all that you continue to do.
Also . . . this book wouldn’t have been possible without the continuing support from my writing friends (you know who you are) and those who have helped guide my books to their final form: John Duncklee; the Berkley production team; Faith, Cherry, Liz, and Chris; and most importantly, Rose, whose confidence in me never wavers.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The challenge of mixing fiction with history is never ending, especially when the mix includes a venerable organization such as the Texas Rangers. In each of my books, I have tried to capture the high-quality character and spirit of the Rangers, most eloquently described by Walter Prescott Webb in his highly respected book Texas Rangers: A Century of Frontier Defense (University of Texas Press, 2008): “No Texas Ranger ever fanned a hammer when he was serious, or made a hip shot if he had time to catch a sight. The real Ranger has been a very quiet, deliberate, gentle person who could gaze calmly into the eye of a murderer, divine his thoughts, and anticipate his action, a man who could ride straight up to death.”
Mr. Webb’s ideal of a Ranger is a high standard. One that continues to be apparent in the modern Texas Ranger organization. It is my hope that every time I tell a Ranger story, I uphold the character and honor of all Texas Rangers, past and present.
For other historical works concerning the Texas Rangers and the Frontier Battalion, the following books have served me welclass="underline" Lone Star Justice: The First Century of the Texas Rangers by Robert M. Utley (Berkley, 2002); The Texas Rangers: Wearing the Cinco Peso, 1821–1900 by Mike Cox (Forge, 2008); Six Years with the Texas Rangers, 1875—1881 by James B. Gillet (Bison Books, 1976).
Online resources such as The Handbook of Texas and Texas Ranger Dispatch magazine, have also been helpful in portraying the Texas Rangers as accurately, and honorably, as possible.
PROLOGUE
October 1861
The forceful north wind pushed through the walls of the cabin, searching out every nook, cranny, and snakesized hole it could find. It was a harsh cold that was nearly bone chilling, a surprise to a young man’s skin that was more accustomed to long, hot, Texas summers than the mystery of the Dakotas or the promise of constant blizzards in the faraway land of Montana. It was the first hint of the coming winter, and the certainty of the change of seasons was not lost on Josiah Wolfe, who slowly stirred awake under a thin blanket, wholly unprepared to step foot on the floor and get a start on the day.
Winter in East Texas was mild, and the deep drop in the temperature was an anomaly, a drop more akin to late January mornings, though rare even then, than October ones. Beyond the suddenness of the cold, roiling clouds were visible through the window, lighting the room in gloomy shadows instead of the happy sunshine Josiah had hoped for the night before. He’d finally drifted off to sleep, fear mixing with excitement over the new adventure that lay in wait for him the next day.
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.