The Indian was bound behind them with a rope leading from each horse and wrapped around his hands, trailing after Donley’s tall black steed, a scrappy-looking stallion.
Much to Josiah’s disappointment, Liam O’Reilly was nowhere to be seen.
The trio of Rangers had obviously failed to capture the Badger but had succeeded in bringing in his Comanche sidekick, the one Josiah had called Big Shirt.
Donley had wanted to scalp Little Shirt in the middle of the street upon his arrival in Comanche, so Josiah was surprised that he had let Big Shirt live upon capture and hadn’t just brought in a scalp and left it at that.
Instead, Ranger Donley had created an event that was likely to draw attention all the way up to the capitol building, if it hadn’t already.
Big Shirt looked weary, stumbling after the horse, trying to keep pace. The knees were torn out of his pants, and blood could be seen on his skin, even from where Josiah stood. Still, the Indian had a scowl on his face, feeding the Anglo fear of Comanche with a full dose, even though it wasn’t needed.
Josiah pulled Lyle as close to him as he could.
The little boy had little or no inherent fear of Indians like Josiah had at his age—and beyond.
Any Indian, Comanche or otherwise, that might have been seen in Austin was either a “friendly” or a half-breed, both anxious to fit in and not be noticed. Hostilities with Indians occurred in the outlying communities, and usually all that made it into the city was the news of an attack, or tall tales, perpetrated by liars and men wanting to make more of themselves than they really were.
When Josiah was a boy, especially in East Texas, the tales of the abduction of Cynthia Ann Parker were fresh, used to control a child and instill fear. Josiah had not told Lyle those stories, or of the time in his own life when he’d had a face-to-face confrontation with a Comanche in the woods, was knocked unconscious, and lost his father’s favored long gun to the savage.
Encouraging a healthy fear in Lyle was not something Josiah had thought about until that very moment, when he locked gazes with Big Shirt, who was staring directly at the boy.
“Get over here,” Josiah said to Scrap, ordering him out of the middle of the street.
“Why?”
“What makes you think you want to be part of this?”
“I’m a Ranger, ain’t I?”
“At the moment,” Josiah said, a familiar unwavering tone in his voice that he used when he was in charge.
Scrap stared at Josiah, then kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Dang it.” He walked over to Josiah, who was about a foot out from the crowd. Scrap knew the tone by now.
“This is going to be big trouble, mark my word,” Josiah said. “You don’t want to be associated with Donley and his antics.”
Scrap shrugged and turned toward the approaching trio.
Lyle looked up and tugged on Scrap’s sleeve. “Hola, Mr. Scrap.”
“Can’t you speak English like a real Texan, Lyle?”
Lyle nodded, then looked away.
Josiah quickly intervened before Scrap could continue on. “Not here, Elliot.”
Scrap started to say something, but he obviously thought better of it and turned around, his back to Josiah and Lyle, facing the crowd.
Josiah pulled Lyle next to him and patted him on top of the head. Lyle smiled upward at Josiah, then stuck his tongue out at Scrap.
CHAPTER 27
B. D. Donley looked a lot taller than he really was sitting on top of his unkempt black stallion. He was a head shorter than Josiah and had thick black hair that was usually coated too heavily with pomade. His voice was scratchy and weak, his face pocked and bumpy like a dry creek bed, and his eyes were nearly black, too, always shifting around at one thing or another. Josiah hadn’t trusted the man from the first day they’d met, and that sentiment still held true.
Donley brought the other two Rangers to a stop upon recognition of Josiah and Scrap. Karl Larson and Slim James were less known to Josiah, since his time with the Battalion had been varied from the start, but both men immediately offered a quick hello to Scrap Elliot.
“Hey there, boys,” Scrap said. “Looks like the huntin’ was good.”
Karl Larson was a big boulder of a man, his arms as big as anvils and his chest barrel-shaped. His clothes were covered with trail dust; even his bushy blond mustache looked to have bits of dirt in it. “Was a good ting you wasn’t with us, there, Scrap,” Larson said, easing back in his saddle, firing a load of tobacco spit back at Big Shirt.
“Why’s that?” Scrap asked.
Slim James chimed in before Larson could answer. “’Cause you and Donley would’ve had a brawl about whether to bring the Comanch back alive.” Slim was true to his name, tall and lanky, arms about as thick as broomsticks, but like Scrap, he had a gift with horses. The two of them raced whenever the opportunity to play showed itself back at the Ranger camp.
“Ain’t no doubt about that,” Scrap said.
Big Shirt fell to his knees, offering nothing but a sigh of exhaustion and a muted groan of pain.
“Good to see you made it back to Austin, Wolfe,” Donley said, dancing his horse forward a bit, tossing a glare over his shoulder that could only mean one thing: for the two Rangers to shut their mouths. His teeth were crooked and tobacco brown. “I surely thought them folks from Comanche would track you down and hang you with your toes to the ground like they did John Wesley Hardin’s kin.”
Josiah could feel every eye of Austin burning into his neck. The crowd across the way was just as thick as the one he’d pushed through to get to the street. It was amazing how silent the crowd was—they were listening to every word spoken. Somewhere, a crow cawed in the distance.
“I did nothing wrong,” Josiah said. His voice was even and his gaze hard. He had no desire to look away from Donley’s snickering grin and accusatory glare. He would just as soon knock the man from his horse, but he restrained himself for his own sake, and Lyle’s.
“Killed a deputy from what I understand. You’ll have to account for that, Wolfe.”
“I’m aware of my deeds, Donley, and their cause. Captain Feders saw fit to send me back to Austin, and you out to capture or kill Liam O’Reilly. Tell me the Irishman’s dead and buried and we haven’t much more to talk about.”
Donley shook his head no. “I have only the Comanch here to show for my troubles—and to prove that the savages still intend to bestow fear upon us all. Do you hear that, fine citizens?” he yelled, doffing his hat in a wave, raising his butt up off the saddle, nearly standing up. “Let loose, this savage will slit your throat, steal your scalp, and eat your kidneys for dinner.” He licked his lips.
The crowd recoiled.
Donley was enjoying himself, and Josiah was certain that the Ranger was up to something—something no good, since he was making such a show of Big Shirt’s presence.
There was an audible gasp from the crowd. A symphony of feet rustled backwards behind Josiah.
“That’s enough, Donley. You’ve riled these fine people enough. What is your intention?” Josiah asked.
“I aim to speak directly to Governor Coke himself.”
“On Feders’s orders, or your own accord?”
“On accord of all the Rangers,” Donley said, puffing his chest.
Josiah held his doubt tight in his throat, only allowing it to escape as a deep baritone groan. He was sure there was more to the man’s ploy than making a case for all of the Rangers to retain their status and pay, but he had no choice but to take the man’s word and let things play out as they would.