“It seems that way,” Feders said. “I think the circumstances we all find ourselves in appear odd. Where are the people of Comanche on this fine day? The storm has passed. I assumed the streets would be jammed with citizens restocking their needs—grain, feed, libations, whatever the desire.”
“There is a storm still raging on here.”
“Explain, Ranger,” Feders said.
“There is little time for that. The troubles are recent. Just happened minutes before your arrival.”
“Our jurisdiction doesn’t allow us to interfere, you know that, Wolfe.”
“I’m aware of that, but I am not free of trouble, and neither is this town,” Josiah said. “We have no choice but to interfere.”
“What say you?”
“Liam O’Reilly robbed the bank within the last hour. He is on the run, heading north, out of town. They killed the banker, Henry Peterson, and the sheriff is dead, too. I believe at the hands of O’Reilly, though I don’t know that for certain. He was riding with the sheriff, tracking me down after I freed myself from the Comanche brothers who took me hostage. Something must have gone wrong, or the sheriff stood up to O’Reilly, one or the other. Either suggestion is just speculation on my part. What matters is the sheriff is dead.”
Feders waved his hand, motioning for a man, a Ranger Josiah did not know too well at all, B. D. Donley, to dismount and join in the conversation. “There is no county sheriff to take up the reins on this one?” He turned his attention back to Josiah. “What about a deputy?”
“That’s part of the trouble that still remains with me, Pete,” Josiah said.
“What do you mean?” Feders asked, an annoyed look flashing across his face. He had made it known that he didn’t like to be called by his first name and found it a betrayal of rank and friendship. Josiah had known Pete Feders for so long it was difficult to call him anything else . . . especially Captain.
“I killed the deputy,” Josiah said.
A final bell tolled in the distance, from an unseen church standing sentinel over an unseen cemetery. Bill Clarmont’s funeral was now most certainly concluded, and the townsfolk were free to return to their daily lives—if they dared.
A few wagons appeared on the main street of town, the passengers and drivers dressed in full black attire, even though the day was more suited for something lighter, something that would denote more of a celebration. The riders in the wagon looked leery of the assemblage of Rangers.
Just as Josiah had heard the toll of the funeral bells, the mourners had surely heard the gunshots and the ruckus caused by O’Reilly. And seeing a troop of men, all dressed differently, not in military garb, with no markings to distinguish them as Rangers, probably brought more fear than curiosity.
Comanche had seen its fair share of vigilantes; lawless mobs that had wreaked havoc on those that followed the straight and narrow, living quiet, law-abiding lives.
The sun had risen high into a cloudless sky. The color of it was a solid blue, strong, not fragile like some November skies tended to be. It could have been a perfect summer day instead of a day drawing nearer and nearer to a brief winter. The wind was warm, pushing up from the south, and even in the center of town there was a flavor of salt and humidity to the air.
But Josiah’s throat was dry. He stood over the dead Comanche, Little Shirt, uncertain of what to do next. The rest of the boys—Josiah’s term, and most every other Ranger’s term for the company—had followed him to the scene in the street, all mounted on their horses, ready for the next order from Captain Feders. B. D. Donley had followed behind Josiah, along with Feders.
“How come you were a-limpin’?” B. D. Donley asked.
“Caught a graze. I’m all right,” Josiah said. In all of the commotion, the pain was a distant irritation, but there was no question that it still hurt and was open to the possibility of infection.
“You takin’ the honors of the scalp?” Donley said, stepping past Josiah. Donley was a short fellow with a scratchy voice, a ruddy face, and a set of eyes that could have belonged to a crow; all black and beady.
Josiah shook his head no. He’d never scalped a dead Indian, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“What’s the matter,” Donley continued, chiding Josiah and completely ignoring Pete Feders, “ain’t you got the stomach for it?”
“I didn’t kill this man for a trophy,” Josiah said. “I killed him because I had to.”
“Don’t look like you’re in a position to be all righteous, Wolfe,” Donley said, his skinny chest puffing out, looking past Little Shirt at the gathering crowd.
“That’s enough, Donley,” Feders said. “You’ll not make an exhibition of this.”
“Ain’t right, Captain,” Donley said. He pulled his lips tight, till they almost disappeared. “This Comanch would scalp a live child. I know, I’ve seen it done. Ain’t a purty sight, I tell you. Rots in your dreams so you can’t make the bad pictures go away.”
“This is not the place,” Feders said, lowering his voice. “This town isn’t anything but a powder keg waiting to blow. I want you to take two other men and go north after Liam O’Reilly. Track him as far as you can. Kill him if you get the chance, but don’t stay out past three days.”
“That it, Captain?” Donley said, a wide smile growing across his face.
“From you it is. Wolfe, I want you and Elliot to get out of here as quickly as you can. Head on to Austin and wait for word from me. Rangers or not, I don’t think we’ll be able to save Wolfe here from the rope once the crowd sees that the sheriff is dead and there’s no law presiding over the town.”
“I’m not running,” Josiah said, stepping up past Donley, nearly knocking him off balance. “Don’t even think about sending me out of here, Pete. I aim to finish what I started.”
“It looks like you did. Now go. That’s an order.” Feders held Josiah’s gaze. There was no question he meant business. The stare was cold and hard, and the scar on Feders’s face pulsed bright red. “I don’t mean to repeat myself, Wolfe. You need me and the boys right now, so I would take the opportunity to depart as quickly as you can before someone gets the idea that you don’t need your scalp, either.”
Josiah sighed heavily and started to turn away, but Feders stopped him with a quick grab of the shoulder.
“You call me Pete one more time, Wolfe, and you won’t have to worry about me being your captain. Is that understood, Sergeant?”
Josiah nodded. “Yes, sir.” He ignored the growing crowd around Little Shirt, kicked his boot into the muddy road, and headed for Lady Mead. “This isn’t over,” he said quietly, under his breath. “It’s far from over, Pete.”
CHAPTER 16
Josiah and Scrap rode south, out of town, both of them pushing their horses to a full run as soon as they had settled into their saddles.
Scrap took the lead, pushing his trusted blue roan mare, Missy, as hard as he could. Josiah let him have a couple of full horse lengths before urging Lady Mead to keep up.
He was glad to be heading south, toward home, toward Austin—but he slowed as they broke free of Comanche, hoping to catch sight of Billie Webb’s house.
He silently hoped to see Billie outside, maybe hanging diapers to dry in the bright sun, or tending to what chickens of her flock remained. But he didn’t see her. Only smoke rising lazily out of the chimney, casting a thin veil of black against an otherwise perfect blue afternoon sky.