For a moment, Josiah thought about pulling away from Scrap and taking Charlie Webb’s palomino back to his widow, leaving her with something of value, at least to sell or trade when the need arose. But that would have to wait for another day. Pete Feders was unyielding with his orders: Go straight to Austin and wait there. No stops that weren’t necessary. Get far away from Comanche as quickly as possible.
Josiah understood the reasoning and knew that if he didn’t leave then, there might be more force in the town than the boys could handle or overcome. If all of Comanche had gone vigilante on John Wesley Hardin’s kin, then challenging a troop of Rangers wasn’t out of the question.
Seeing Billie and returning Lady Mead was not meant to be, and Josiah felt odd, full of regret at the thought. There was no way he was going to forget what she had done for him. Somehow, he was going to make things right, even though she didn’t expect him to.
If it wasn’t for Josiah, she would have had to birth her child alone, and that prospect was not lost on either one of them. Still, Josiah Wolfe was not the kind of man who rode away on another man’s horse, or wore his clothes for that matter, without offering something of like value. But he was doing so now—for the first time in his life, at least that he could remember.
It seemed the only way to change any of that was to do as he was told and return to Austin.
He did feel like less of a Ranger, though—less of a man really—not staying to face the consequences of his actions head-on, but he silently agreed that Feders would have a better chance at quelling any disputes if Josiah wasn’t there. Having Pete Feders act as his mouthpiece sure didn’t feel right . . . but orders were orders.
There would be consequences to face, regardless of what happened in Comanche. Josiah was certain of that—knew that once they reached Austin, he would have to clear himself, and the reputation of the Rangers, directly to Major Jones, if not to Governor Coke himself.
He wasn’t sure which group would be the toughest to face—the officers in the Frontier Battalion or the raging mad citizens of Comanche, Texas. Either way, he knew he’d face whatever came. Right now he just had a bullet graze in the leg. He hoped that would be the only scar from this incident.
Lady Mead seemed glad to be running, angling to keep up with Missy and Scrap. Josiah let the mare have her head, let her go, and was surprised that she was as comfortable a steed as his own horse, Clipper. Scrap remained silent, distant, and that was just fine with Josiah. The last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment was the high spirits of Scrap Elliot. There were stories to swap between the two of them, there was no doubt about that—but neither man seemed in a hurry to chew the fat and recount recent events.
They skirted a town, Priddy, causing them to head due west for a few miles.
Well away from the town, or any other ranches or human habitation, a creek rose up out of the soft ground and snaked southeast, cutting through hundred-foot-high limestone bluffs. The creek was called Cowhouse Creek since there was enough room to shelter a good-sized herd of longhorns from weather or just to rest. Signs of recent passing herds were everywhere. There were hardly any grasses that didn’t show sign of grazing, and the mud was dotted with hoofprints, hard and set, like artwork made of fired clay. But there weren’t any cows moving through at the moment.
There was plenty of vegetation, drawing bird life and smaller critters, like squirrels and rabbits. The ground was a stony clay loam beyond the creek and sandy near the edge, and there were large groves of healthy oaks, walnuts, and other hardwoods to offer a fair amount of shade. The outlying vistas were dotted with mesquite, chaparral, buffalo grasses, hackberry, and thickets of heavy brush. A few mountains—two thousand-foot-tall hills—rose up in the distance as well. The remainder of their travels weren’t going to be flatfooted, so they needed to be prepared.
Both he and Scrap had left Comanche without enough provisions, none as far as Josiah knew, to last the ride back to Austin, so the sight of the creek was a welcome relief since it looked to support a wide variety of wildlife to hunt—unlike the alkaline stretch of the San Saba lowland they had been captured in.
The day had stretched on, and now it was nearly evening. Daylight was fading gray. The perfect clear blue sky was being replaced by a melancholy one, dotted with thin vapors that looked more like veils than clouds. It would be a cooler night, but not cold, and for that, Josiah was glad. The bluffs would protect them from any high winds, but it would also make it difficult to escape any Indian attack if they chose the night for an assault. He still wasn’t convinced that Big Shirt was aligned with any band of Comanche, but it was hard to say. Still, Josiah knew he had to be wary of both Big Shirt and Liam O’Reilly. It was hard to say how far their shadows fell and who they were truly aligned with out in the world, away from town.
Regardless, Josiah was ready to stop and make camp, at least water the horses and find something to eat before nightfall set in.
He urged Lady Mead to catch up with Scrap and Missy, and the mare obliged heartily, showing a burst of speed and dedication that surprised Josiah. He thought the mare must have been ready for a rest. But her spunk almost convinced him to continue on and ride through the night. He was ready to be in familiar territory, if the city of Austin could be called familiar. And Josiah was more than ready to see Lyle and feel the floors of home under his feet, instead of the uncertain ground he’d been walking on in the last few days.
“Let’s make camp,” Josiah yelled out to Scrap as he met him neck to neck.
Scrap glared at Josiah and yelled back, “You left me.”
Josiah shook his head, not sure he’d heard Scrap clearly, but he had known the boy long enough to read the look on his face, the hard set of his jaw, to know that he was angry and petulant—which was the last thing Josiah wanted to deal with at the moment.
He would rather have been riding with a stranger, one of the boys he didn’t know very well, instead of Scrap Elliot. For some reason, Pete Feders seemed to think of the two of them as partners. Josiah certainly didn’t feel that way. At least not at the moment.
“Have it your way.” He yanked the reins and cut Lady Mead to the right, slowing her to an easy stop as gently as he could. He wasn’t about to take his frustration out on a horse like he’d seen some men do.
The creek was about twenty-five yards off to his left, running swiftly. Shadows danced on the water, and there was a slight smell of dead fish in the air. It was like being let loose in the wild after being held captive longer than he ever wanted to be, and he took a deep breath of the acrid air and enjoyed every second of it. Oddly enough, his stomach grumbled with hunger.
Scrap had kept riding, disappearing quickly into the roll of the land and the chaparral in the distance. The ground was too hard for him to kick up a trail of dust, but Josiah was pretty certain that Scrap had slapped Missy on the rump, pushing her to run even faster.
Suit yourself, Josiah thought to himself. Suit yourself.
The fire reflected off the creek and played off the bluffs comfortably, like it belonged there . . . bringing light to a completely dark night. There was no sign of the moon, though the stars were pinpricks of sparkling silver for as far as the eye could see. Most of the insects that usually buzzed about at night had done whatever they do for the onset of winter—at least that was what Josiah thought, since it was nearly silent beyond the fire. The silence was a little unsettling. He felt like he was being watched—by more than just critters.
The Spencer was within reach, even though he only had two shots left. He still wore Charlie Webb’s Colt Frontier on his side, so he was more than ready if he should come under attack. Paranoia was not a trait Josiah usually carried with him, but his capture by the Comanche brothers had unsettled him . . . and left him full of questions.