Dixie Jim was in the lead, riding a small Indian paint mare and carrying very little with him. No rifle, his crutch instead stuffed into the scabbard. He only bore a gun on his hip, an old war model Colt with a little rust growing on the outside of the barrel. As far as Josiah was concerned, the gun was more for show than actual use.
Scrap brought up the rear, once again, with Josiah riding comfortably in the middle of the trio.
Josiah was glad to be on the trail, glad to be away from Brackett and the fort, but uncertain of how things were going to work out. If there was a larger plan that he had been unaware of when they set out from Austin, then the details had been left behind in the mind of Juan Carlos.
It was possible that Juan Carlos and Pete Feders knew of each other’s presence and movement toward Laredo to put an end to Liam O’Reilly’s freedom once and for all.
Feders had spent a lot of time riding with Captain Hiram Fikes, which, of course, meant he had spent a lot of time riding with Juan Carlos—who was never far from his half brother’s side while he was alive.
Juan Carlos knew Pete Feders better, or knew more about him, than anybody, including Josiah himself—at least, as far as Josiah knew.
Regardless, Josiah was determined to use Dixie Jim’s skills to ferret out Liam O’Reilly, then formulate a plan once they found him. It was not how Josiah liked to operate, but he was too far from home to turn back, and too close to Laredo not to finish the mission he’d been assigned by Captain McNelly, even though the charge itself had come through indirect channels.
If Feders was near, then they’d cross paths and go from there.
The Las Moras was in an easy mood since it was November. The water was still as a mirror, reflecting the first star of the evening as it appeared in the darkening eastern sky. Spring rains were long since a memory.
The creek still offered hope of a fish or two, if the need arose along the way—so that was an encouraging thought as far as Josiah was concerned. Chewing on jerky got old real fast.
“Keep it quiet, there, boys. Might be eyes on us even in the night. Apache or Kickapoo might mistake you for Lieutenant John Bullis or Colonel Mackenzie,” Dixie Jim said. “They’d love nuttin’ more than to rile the tribe with a scalp or two, regardless of us bein’ army or not.”
Josiah knew that Bullis was the commander of the scouts and knew the lieutenant was well respected by all of the Negro-Seminoles, but he had never met the man to personally know his character.
Mackenzie was a character in and of himself, since he had led raids into Mexico, punishing renegade Indians for the theft of cattle and other crimes they’d committed. Both men were reviled and hated by the Indians, and the shadows of their deeds fell over all white men, linking them with the rage that continued to fuel all of the tribes of Indians that were trying to hold on to the land in South Texas, and the Strip, as their own.
Scrap eased Missy up alongside Josiah so both of their horses were neck to neck, trotting along at an easy gait.
“Seems to me the only one of us that’s gonna alert the savages to our presence is that one there,” Scrap said in a whisper.
“Heard that there, young one,” Dixie Jim said. “You’d be best to carry a rifle and not a bout of foolishness with your tongue, sayin’ things you know nothin’ about. I may like the taste of whiskey, but this land speaks to me in ways you can never understand. The land owns me. You hear?”
“I don’t hear nothin,’ ” Scrap said.
“That there is exactly my point.”
With most of their traveling done at night, the following two days were spent resting in the shadows of canyons, sometimes in well-used caves that Dixie Jim seemed to know where to find in the places they were staying, like he knew in a town where a hotel was, without asking. Other times they camped under ledges of rock so high it would take the legs of a lizard to climb to the top. But they never camped out in the open, never burned a fire big enough to reveal their location.
Dixie Jim rarely slept, or if he did, he did so away from Josiah and Scrap. Once camp had been made, Dixie Jim would wander off, surprisingly silent with his one foot and crutch, urging both men to rest. He would be the watch, offering no break for himself, or a shift for Josiah and Scrap.
There had been no signs of any Lipan Apache, Feders and the nine other Rangers, or Liam O’Reilly. They had not seen or heard anyone, and the lack of confrontation was a relief to Josiah, but he was starting to question his trust in Dixie Jim. They could be anywhere as far as Josiah knew—riding in circles in the middle of nowhere. All of the wild longhorns, circling buzzards, and hawks looked the same to him.
It was late in the afternoon, and rest had come, though fitfully, for Josiah. They were safe from the beaming sun in one of the caves that Dixie Jim knew, a hole in the wall of a thousand-foot mountain. It was cool inside and light enough to see your own two feet, the ground nothing but soft red dirt, the air dry and still. There was no depth to the cave, no long tunnel deep into the ground or the mountain. It was a wide open mouth of rock that bore no life other than an insect here or there, waiting in the shadows for the Rangers to drop a crumb of food.
Josiah was heating the coffeepot. Scrap had wandered outside to get a breath of fresh air and relieve himself. He had a frustrated look on his face when he returned to the cave.
“I’m gettin’ tired of waitin’ around for that half-breed,” Scrap said. “Ain’t nothin’ like it was with Red Overmeyer out and about.”
The mention of Red stopped Josiah, almost caused his heart to skip a beat. He still felt responsible for the man’s death.
Josiah looked up at Scrap, offered him a cup of Arbuckle’s. “Did Feders ever mention to you that he doubted Red Overmeyer’s allegiance to the Rangers?”
“What do you mean allegiance?”
“Feders seemed to think that Red was more loyal to Indians than us, that he had a deal with those two Comanche that we encountered up at the San Saba.”
“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard. Red Overmeyer was a Ranger through and through,” Scrap said.
“That’s what I thought, but Feders made a solid case for it before we left Austin. Said he thought Overmeyer had a deal with the Comanche so they knew we were coming that way. He thought Overmeyer was a spy for Indians or O’Reilly.”
“If Feders was here right now, I’d punch him in the nose for sayin’ such a thing. That’s not the kind of thing you can say about a man who ain’t around to defend his own self.”
“He thought Overmeyer was going to split the bounty on my head with the Comanche, but they decided to keep the money for themselves. Which was why they killed him and not you.”
“I guess that makes sense, if Red was that type of fella. Didn’t even gamble or bet a horse when me and the boys ran ’em up at the camp. Funny thing is, Wolfe, Feders and the boys knew where to find me. Do you think that’s just a lucky find, or is there somethin’ more to it?”
“I’m starting to think it was more than luck, too. I wondered how Feders knew to find me in Comanche. Rode in just at the right time. And now it sure seems odd that Feders was close by when Juan Carlos was shot, then disappeared south. I didn’t even know he was supposed to be involved in this plan of McNelly’s. Juan Carlos was tight-lipped about it all. It’s almost like he knew everything that was going to happen before it did, and that doesn’t make a lot of sense.” Josiah said.
Scrap started to say something, then did not allow a word to escape from his lips—which was unusual for him.
Josiah nodded. “Unless Pete Feders was in on all of this for some reason.”
“That’d be a surprise.”
“It would be a crime worse than any I could imagine, working with that scoundrel, O’Reilly. For what?”