Being taken captive almost felt like it had been part of an elaborate plan—but for that to happen, then Liam O’Reilly and the two brothers would have had to have known he was leaving Austin with only two men, that he was vulnerable for capture. Could someone have told them about the orders he’d been given to go after Comanche cow rustlers and bring them back for questioning? If so, who? And why?
Perhaps the why wasn’t such a difficult question to answer. Liam O’Reilly wanted him dead. And he would obviously go to any length to see that happen. The larger question, the one that was eating at Josiah the most, was who. Who could Liam O’Reilly recruit to get the information he needed from within the battalion of Rangers? Was there a spy within the ranks?
Josiah could hardly believe what he was thinking. He took a deep breath and looked out into the darkness. Something moved. Or at least he thought it had. It could have been a shadow swimming on the limestone, reflecting back off the running creek. Or smoke fading upward, caught by a breeze, then blown back to the edge of darkness. Or it could have been a cougar or a bear, attracted by the smell of what remained of the rabbit roasting next to the fire.
He grabbed up the rifle, eased it into his left hand, and unholstered the six-shooter.
“Don’t go gettin’ all trigger-happy, Wolfe, it’s just me,” Scrap said, appearing out of the black of night, leading Missy closely by the halter. It was clear that she’d thrown a shoe.
Josiah relaxed. “You about got your head shot off.”
Scrap nodded, tying Missy to a nearby oak. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The anger had gone from Scrap’s face. Interpreting Scrap’s feelings didn’t take a medicine man; they were etched clearly on his features. Now he was just tired and about to give out after the long ride.
“Won’t be the last time, either,” Josiah said. He tried not to smile. He wasn’t really that surprised to see Elliot walk into camp, his head down in defeat and resignation.
“Suppose not. Is that rabbit I smell?”
Josiah nodded. “My specialty.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Sometimes, but not now. Come on in.”
“Thanks, Wolfe. I couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to hurt Missy running at night.”
“I understand. We need to talk about some things, anyway,” Josiah said.
“Yeah, I think we do,” Scrap answered as he pulled a tin plate and fork from his saddlebag.
Josiah let his hand slide off the Colt Frontier, but he held on to the rifle. “You wouldn’t have any reason to see me dead, would you, Elliot?”
CHAPTER 17
Scrap didn’t answer until he’d filled his plate with meat and sat down next to the fire, opposite Josiah. “Why in tarnation would I want to see you dead, Wolfe? That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard all day.”
“Just sitting here thinking about everything, and a lot of things don’t add up, that’s all.” Josiah toyed with a piece of the rabbit. It tasted good to him, but he’d had about enough.
Scrap grabbed up a leg and tore a chunk of meat off, barely chewing it. “Tastes like summer grass.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Josiah let the silence of the night push into the camp. He stared at Scrap Elliot, glad to see him but still uncertain if he would ever call him his friend. There was no doubt that the kid had true intentions—that he wanted to be a good Ranger and an honest man. But there was also the fact that he was young and wily, unpredictable as an unbroken mustang. Tragedy of one kind or another had shaped them both. Josiah was well aware of that. War had left its mark on him, and death and disease had afflicted him in a hidden manner. Some men lost an arm or a leg in the war. Josiah had lost the ability to trust—among other things.
For Scrap, the utter violence and rage employed by the Comanche had taken away the comfort that had previously existed his young life. Murder had poured hate into his heart, and it coursed through his veins every day. The Indians had killed his parents outright, and that left Scrap and his younger sister, Myra Lynn, orphans. Myra Lynn lived with the Ursuline nuns in Dallas, while Scrap was left to fend for himself. His body might have kept on growing, but it sure seemed to Josiah that everything else, the things that mattered on the inside of Scrap, had stopped dead in their tracks when his folks were killed.
Josiah had seen the nuns once or twice on his travels. They wore long black dresses, black sleeveless cloaks, a headdress with a white veil and another veil that was black, too. It was hard to tell if the women were in mourning or practicing religion. He knew nothing about either, at least openly.
Still, Scrap rarely talked about his sister or family. Any bond that was shared by Josiah and Scrap would be the adventures they had experienced together since the forming of the Frontier Battalion back in the spring. And that had been a short time. Not time enough for a true friendship to grow as far as Josiah was concerned.
“What?” Scrap said, rabbit grease trailing out of the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t you never seen a hungry man before?”
“Sure I have.”
“Then why are you starin’ at me?”
“Why’d you say I left you?”
“You did.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“You let yourself get captured,” Scrap said, setting his plate down next to the fire.
The air shifted, and the smoke enveloped Scrap like it had been called to him. The boy coughed, stood up, and moved away from the fire. The smoke followed him. “Damn it.”
Josiah stood up, too, angered by Scrap’s accusation. “You were the first one the Comanche took. You were captured.”
“They tricked me. Overmeyer said there was only one.”
Josiah sighed. Their voices were raised, echoing off the limestone bluffs. Anger had invaded the silence of the peaceful November night.
“I would have never left you or Overmeyer by choice. You know that, right? Feders put me in charge, and I failed to keep you and Red safe. I brought trouble to the whole company, and I lost a man. He’s dead because of what I failed to see, what I failed to do. I don’t know if Rangering will ever be the same . . . if they’ll even want to keep me on—if I even want to stay on with all that’s happened.”
“You or the rest of us,” Scrap said.
“What do you mean?”
“The governor’s put out an order to cut the Battalion down in size. Ain’t enough money to pay everybody the wages they promised. I figure the pay I get in Austin will be my last.”
“How many men are being cut?”
“They want twenty men to a company. You still got a chance to make the cut, Wolfe. You’ve known Feders a lot longer than I have. Rode with him and Captain Fikes. I figure you’ll be fine in the end. I can do some cattle punchin’, ain’t like I’ll be left out in the cold. I got skills. Horse skills. But I sure would like to stay a Ranger,” Scrap said.
“You can’t know anything for sure. They might keep you on.” Josiah shifted his weight uncomfortably, standing back from the fire.
If the future had been uncertain before, it certainly was even more so now. He understood little about politics, or government for that matter. But he understood the lack of money in the state coffers. Since the Panic of ’73 took hold a year prior, and nearly all the banking and railroad businessmen had lost their shirts, life had been hard going for most all of the United States and the territories beyond.