The Gila Wars (3 page)

Josiah assumed the Mexican was one of Cortina's men. His clothes were ragged, his eyes defeated, his hands bound tightly, and his face bruised and bloodied. There was no sign of any bullet wound, but the stubby little man leaned forward, like he was in great pain. The lean might have only been one of fear, or part of a plot to escape, but Josiah doubted that. No man was stupid enough to try to break free in a camp of Rangers hungry to quell Juan Cortina. Not if he was in his right mind.

The troop of scouts pushed by, offering no explanation, only a cloud of unsettled dust in their wake. Most of the men had smiles on their faces, though. They knew what waited for them out in the world beyond the camp; a battle, a chance at victory, and now they seemed to have confidence, the upper hand. It would be a good tonic for all of the Rangers to drink before setting out.

Josiah watched, a familiar taste rising from deep inside his throat, as Robinson stopped in front of McNelly's tent, quickly dismounted, and disappeared inside.

“Looks like they found more than they were lookin' for,” Scrap said, dusting the dirt off his shoulder.

“Or exactly what Cortina intended them to find,” Josiah answered, his hand slipping unconsciously to the grip of his Peacemaker as he scanned the horizon, certain as the sky was gray that they were being watched and scouted themselves.

CHAPTER 2

There were no men in Company A who questioned Captain Leander McNelly's capacity to lead a successful campaign against Juan Cortina—or any outlaw, for that
matter.

At first glance, the man looked weak and too racked with consumption to have any kind of productive life at all. He was thin as an arrow, short in stature, his face gaunt and his skin white and pasty. At times, in the sad light of the evening, McNelly looked like a ghost, uncomfortable in this world. His dark brown hair held a natural wave to it, and his goatee was thick and flowed over his chin like a deep fall of dark water. He was neat and tidy about himself, his years of military life evident in every movement and forethought.

Originally from Virginia, McNelly's family had moved to Texas in search of a better life as sheep farmers, and weather that would be more suitable for the young Leander. At the age of seventeen, McNelly enlisted in Company F of the Fifth Regiment of the Texas Mounted Volunteers, serving the Confederacy through the war. He was wounded once, severely, in the Battle of Mansfield in 1864. He took no leave and returned to duty as soon as he was able to stand, leading scouts into Texas, rounding up deserters.

After the war, McNelly returned to Texas, and when he wasn't on his family farm near Burton, he served in the State Police along with another of Josiah's mentors and fellow veterans of the war, Hiram Fikes. Most recently, as the head of the Special Forces, McNelly's memorable outing put an end to the Sutton-Taylor feud in Dewitt County.

The hoots, hollers, and lack of order so early in the morning drew Captain Leander McNelly out of his tent, fully dressed, looking agitated and annoyed by the shenanigans in his camp. Lieutenant Robinson's arrival was not unexpected, but the timing was a surprise.

Josiah and Scrap had followed the troop of scouts and their captive to McNelly's tent, joining the other Rangers in the camp. They were all pressed together, casting an ear toward the tent as Lieutenant Robinson dragged the unwilling Mexican to face McNelly.

“Unhand the man, Robinson,” McNelly ordered, running his eyes up and down the Mexican, offering little emotion.

Robinson immediately let go of the Mexican. There was no threat since the man's hands were bound tight with rope, and he had most assuredly been searched and relieved of any weapons, including any knives hidden on his person, before being brought into camp.

The Mexican looked weak and scared as he stumbled forward, stopping inches from McNelly. The captain did not flinch.

“What is your name?”

The Mexican stared at McNelly like he didn't understand a word he'd said.

“Don't play stupid with me, man,” McNelly said. “I'd just as soon let my men have a play at you than be cordial. I will succeed whether you cooperate willingly with me or not. Do you understand now?” McNelly said, slipping his hand softly to the hilt of the Bowie knife he wore on his side. “You are on the wrong side of the fence, and my men are anxious for a fight or, at the very least, a smell of enemy blood.”

“Rafael,” the Mexican said, nodding eagerly. “My name is Rafael Salinas.”

“Good,” McNelly said. “I'm glad you've decided to make this easy. You speak the Anglo tongue as well as you understand it. This will be easy then.”

“Yes,
sí
.”

Josiah was squeezed tight in the group of men, about two back from the curve of Rangers that had formed around Robinson, McNelly, and Rafael Salinas. His hand, like Scrap's, and every other man's within earshot, rested within inches of his gun, at the ready, in case something went wrong, or if Salinas was a plant, a distraction.

The feeling of being watched from afar had not left Josiah, but he was more relaxed, surrounded by the boys of the company, all scrunched in like a pack of wolves, ready to pounce on Rafael Salinas at the first opportunity.

Wood smoke mixed with the metallic smell of weapons being readied for battle, and there was a familiar numbness growing deep inside Josiah. He could taste death on his tongue. Kill or be killed. He knew the first steps of the dance, had known it for more than half his life, but it was anything but normal and rarely welcomed. Even the preparations and anticipation were uncomfortable.

“If you tell me of General Cortina's plan and whereabouts,” McNelly said, “I will let you leave here unharmed, let you go free once the dust has settled and there is proof that the information that you are about to give me is, indeed, valuable and correct.”

“And what if I don't tell you, señor? What if I fear Juan Nepomuceno Cortina and his rage against a traitor more than I fear you and your bloodthirsty
asesinos
?”

“Then this will be your last day to walk this earth, and your death will be a humiliation to you and your kind. A slow and painful death.” McNelly drew in a deep breath, and even from a distance, Josiah could hear the distinct rattle in the captain's chest. But there was no doubt that he spoke the truth. Captain McNelly was not a man who made empty threats about something so serious as death. He said what he meant and meant what he said. If Salinas had any inclination of lying to the captain, then he was a stupid man, playing with his fate like a mouse trying to escape the extended talons of an oncoming hawk.

“I understand,” the Mexican said. He spoke English pretty well, but there was still a thick, halting quality to his speech, an accent that revealed the language was learned later in life and was not his original tongue. He hesitated and looked to the sky. Josiah followed the man's gaze as it settled on the rising sun, exposing a pink, cloudless expanse. “There is a party of sixteen of Cortina's best men, set to get a drove of cattle to take to a Cuban steamer that waits in the bay.”

“We know this information,” McNelly said. And it was true. Every man in the camp knew of Cortina's plans. They just did not know when or where the steamer was coming ashore to load. “That will not save your life, or your dignity. I need something more, Rafael Salinas. Can you feel the ground under your feet?”

“
Sí
.”

“Enjoy it while you still can,” McNelly said. “Do you have children?”

Rafael nodded. “
Tres
. I only ride with Cortina to feed them. It is all I have left. The
sequìa
, the dry weather, has left me a poor man, wealthy of nothing more than dust.”

“Dust is your children's legacy then, if you offer me nothing more than you have. They will not even know where to mourn you. I will leave your flesh to the coyotes and the buzzards.”

“I am in the rear guard sent to remount, señor, under the command of Camillo Lerma and a man known only as
la
Aboja
, the Needle. My absence will be noted but will not be of any worry. Another man will be recruited for my place, offered a great reward that I doubt will ever be fully paid. Cortina is a miser with his money, as well as his heart.”

“I care little of the man's heart unless it is in my hand, cut from his body. When will they be loading the beeves onto the steamer?”

“I do not know, señor. Honestly, I do not know for certain. Soon, though, in the next week for certain. The ship will not wait forever once it arrives. We were charged to take the cows from La Parra, steal them in the night. The
barco
cannot be far out to sea.”

McNelly nodded as he unsheathed his knife. The blade glinted brilliantly as a touch of sunlight bounced off it. “And that is all you can tell me?”

Rafael's face was wet with perspiration. He looked like he had been standing out in the rain. “I swear it, señor, on my
madre
's grave.” He made the sign of the cross from the top of his forehead to his chest, his lip quivering the entire time.

“I believe you. But know this, Rafael Salinas. If you have lied to me, caused me to send my men into any harm, there will be no more questions, no judge to plead to. I will kill you myself. It will be your heart I feed to the buzzards.”

Rafael sighed and lowered his head, offering no more words.

“Take him away, Robinson. Get him out of my sight before I change my mind and end this right here and now.”

Robinson grabbed Rafael Salinas by the scruff of his shirt collar and pulled him away from the crowd. He hurried south of the captain's tent, where there had already been an enclosure erected with the intention of holding captives. The Ranger camp had been pitched thoughtfully, as a base, not just as a stopping spot for a night or two.

Robinson and Salinas disappeared quickly, leaving McNelly standing alone, facing the crowd of men.

Josiah stood still, not thinking, not consciously breathing, just waiting for whatever was next.

The Mexican had told McNelly where the rustling was going to take place, and that the wait wasn't going to be much longer. The engagement between the Rangers and Cortina's men would be soon, perhaps even on this day. Cortina's men would not give up the rustled beeves without a hard fight.

Scrap remained quiet, as well, standing solemnly by Josiah's side.

It was hard to tell what the boy was thinking, but if Josiah could guess, Scrap was most likely disappointed that the captain hadn't slit Rafael's chest open right then and there. The only thing Scrap Elliot hated more than Mexicans was the Comanche, and for whatever the reason, the only suitable punishment for either brown-skinned man or woman was an unforgiving and painful death.

The hate was one of Scrap's impulses that Josiah feared would lead to trouble, to a bad decision, as had happened in the past. But Scrap was different now, changed somehow on this journey, though Josiah couldn't exactly say he trusted Scrap not to react angrily and without thought. If he was being honest, he'd say the wait for Scrap to release his rage was like a slow-burning fuse. It was just a matter of time before the fire hit the dynamite and exploded.

The captain stood stiffly, looking unaffected and unconcerned by what he had just learned. Instead, he scanned the crowd searching for something, it seemed, to satisfy whatever it was he had in mind now that he knew where the rustling operation was going to occur.

“Wolfe,” McNelly demanded, his voice as loud as it could go. “Come here.”

Josiah flinched at the mention of his name. He drew in a deep breath, more than curious why McNelly would want him.

“You, too, Elliot,” McNelly said. “The two of you are the perfect pair to find out what Cortina's planning once he leaves La Parra.”

CHAPTER 3

The crowd of men parted, allowing Josiah and Scrap
through unimpeded and without comment.

It was as silent as a funeral as they made their way to face Captain McNelly. Scrap's shoulders were slumped, and Josiah could feel a hesitation in his step that surprised him. Scrap didn't resist any kind of duty, but being called out in front of the entire company made him uncomfortable.

They stopped in front of McNelly, both at attention, even though a military response wasn't required. Josiah could feel dread working its way to his head all the way from his toes.

“You two have experience as spies. I want you to find the rustlers,” McNelly said in as strong a voice as he could muster. “Follow their trail from where Robinson captured Rafael Salinas. See if what he said is true. We'll guard the passes surrounding the Arroyo Colorado and stay concealed there until the beeves are rustled and we can confront Cortina once and for all,” McNelly said. “We will stop this shipment of Texas cattle to Cuba if it takes every man in camp, and more if necessary.”

Josiah wanted to protest, but he said nothing. He lowered his head, resigned to a duty he didn't want.

It was true; he and Scrap had both served as spies for McNelly. Shortly after Josiah was relieved of his duty in the Frontier Battalion by Captain Pete Feders, they both were sent to Corpus Christi to gather as much information about Cortina's rustling operation as possible. The duty was more a banishment for Josiah than anything else. He'd then been forced to kill Pete Feders in a trek to South Texas, where the captain was going to join forces with Cortina to raise enough money to marry Pearl Fikes and keep her in the manner she was accustomed to—at least that was Feders's excuse for joining forces with the Mexican cattle rustler and an outlaw, Liam O'Reilly, who was set on running the thievery side of the business in Texas. Feders drew his gun on Josiah, giving Josiah no choice but to save himself—and Scrap.

The newspapers in Austin had had a heyday with the killing, one Ranger killing another. The incident made life difficult for the fledging Ranger organization and the governor himself.

Spy duty had been reason enough to get Josiah out of town, while allowing him to stay in the Rangers, since he'd been cleared of any wrongdoing. Scrap was sent along, but they'd operated separately, with Josiah assuming the identity of Zeb Teter, a hide trader. Scrap pretended to be a down-on-his-luck cowboy looking for work, but he'd had no luck scrounging any worthy information. The Mexicans didn't trust him.

It had been a difficult span of time, and pretending to be a man other than himself didn't suit Josiah well. He had been glad to be back with the company of men, a sergeant among the boys, and nothing more. Being a spy was something he had hoped never to do again.

As the command settled in, Josiah took a deep breath and accepted his fate. Scrap, on the other hand, kicked the dirt—away from McNelly, of course.

“Is there a problem, Elliot?” McNelly demanded, his voice suddenly as sharp as the blade of his Bowie knife that had now found its way back into the sheath on the captain's hip.

“No, sir, it's just that . . . Oh, never mind,” Scrap said, not looking at McNelly's face at all, still staring at the ground.

“Spit it out. This is important duty. If there's a problem, speak of it now instead of on the trail, where you could put yourself and Wolfe in danger.”

“It's just that I ain't no good at bein' a spy, Captain. That long bit of dusty time I spent in Corpus was as uncomfortable as a Sunday suit in the middle of the week. No offense, but I'd be just as good on the outcrop, hidden with my finger on the trigger, waitin' for Cortina himself to pass by. I'm a better shooter than I am a liar.”

“You
are
a good shot, Elliot. One of the best in the company, there's no question of that. But you and Wolfe know the lay of the land, and I'm assuming there might be a contact here or there that was made in your previous trip that could help us find out the final plans of this operation, sooner rather than later. At least confirm what Salinas has told us. I lack faith in his worried words.”

“He's right, Scrap,” Josiah said in his best sergeant voice. “We're better at this than we think. We can scout and spy, you'll see; the captain's right in sending the two of us.” Josiah made eye contact with McNelly and nodded. “We can talk the talk. Folks won't think twice of us being Rangers, if we do this right.”

He was not truly as confident as he wanted to be, but Josiah understood McNelly's point in picking them. There was certainly no way Josiah was going to turn down a duty from the captain, not in front of the entire company, and with so much at stake.

Josiah had chosen to ride with the Rangers, to stay on the trail and serve in the best way he could; there was no way he could object—unless he wanted to ride north, back to Austin, and never call himself a Ranger again. That wasn't going to happen. Not anytime soon, anyway. But deep down, what Josiah wanted, more than to serve his duty loyally as a sergeant, was a good measure of redemption that would spread north and restore his reputation as an honorable man. Redemption in the eyes of Governor Richard Coke and the adjunct general, William Steele. Both men had suffered undue attention because of Josiah's actions, and he wanted nothing more than to prove them right for standing by him, believing in him enough to allow a continuation of his service to the Rangers.

Scrap finally nodded, noting that the correctness of the captain's choice was obvious, though his face still showed concern, if not distaste. The same look had been firmly implanted on his every action since the boy had ridden out of Austin. It was more than worrisome for Josiah, but he said nothing. Scrap would be better watched with him on the trail than left behind with the company.

“Well,” McNelly said, “what are you waiting for? Daylight's burning.”

* * *

Josiah tied his bedroll on his horse's saddle and gave it a
final tug. Clipper, his Appaloosa, was a good, hearty horse who had seen Josiah through a lot of adventures. He was responsive and easygoing but could be stubborn in situations that were uncomfortable. Clipper would have been a good warhorse. Sudden noise, explosions, and gunfire had no effect on him. The horse wanted nothing more than to do as Josiah asked, or demanded.

Having Clipper along would make it easier to slip into another identity. Hopefully this journey would be far shorter than the last time, when he'd had to walk in Zeb Teter's shoes for four months.

Scrap cinched the saddle on his horse. The mare was fast and, as far as Josiah as could tell, just as reliable to Scrap as Clipper was to him.

“What're your plans, Wolfe?” Scrap asked.

The question surprised Josiah. Scrap was usually not so willing to take orders or settle so quickly into second place. “We'll head to Arroyo first. It's a little village not too far from here. It was settled by Mexican herders about the time the war broke out, but last time I was down this way, there were some Anglos there, hide traders as well as agents, working both sides of the border.”

“Traitors you mean.”

“Call 'em what you want, but it's as good a place to start as any. I'm thinking these
gringos
riding with Cortina must have left some family behind.”

Scrap started to say something, then restrained himself. “It'll take me some time to slip out of this skin, Wolfe,” he finally said. “You know I ain't got no use for Mexicans, thieves, or
gringos
.”

“I know.” The bedroll was firmly in its place, and everything else needed was packed on Clipper, ready to go. Scrap's bedroll was still on the ground, unfurled. “But this duty won't be as long as last time. You don't have as long to put away your own feelings about things. I'd as soon not get killed anytime soon because you're not paying attention to what's in front of us.”

“I ain't gonna get you killed, Wolfe. I done saved your life more than once.”

“My luck might be running out.”

Scrap shot Josiah a hurtful look, his eyes dark with misgivings.

“I'm joshing you, Elliot. Relax.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Josiah knew it was best to hold his tongue. He'd ridden with Scrap Elliot long enough to know he had a temper set on tinder, looking for a spark. The recent business in Austin had only made matters worse.

He climbed up in the saddle, settled in, and sat staring down at Scrap, waiting. Clipper snorted softly and tossed his head to the right, then to the left, like he was trying to balance himself, readying to go.

There were times like this, Josiah thought to himself, when it would have been useful to have had a younger brother or even a younger sister. But as it was, Josiah had been born an only child to parents who were now dead and gone. He had no natural knowledge when it came to dealing with someone you cared about but had to be firm with. All he had was instinct, lessons learned in the war as he found himself, over and over again, in situations that required him to take charge. And there was also a brief time in his life, after the war, when he came home to Texas and took up the position of marshal of his hometown, Seerville. Along with that duty, he'd had a small, growing family, at the time. Three daughters . . . all who were taken by the fevers, and his wife, Lily, left dead in childbirth. Josiah was left to put his life back together, and he'd found that opportunity in the remaking of the new Rangers, the Frontier Battalion and the Special Forces that McNelly commanded, a little more than a year earlier.

At this age, and with his experience, being able to rise up in the chain of command came just a little easier to him, especially when it came to dealing with some of the boys, none of whom he had known before becoming a Ranger. He didn't consider them friends, like he did Elliot.

“Let's go, Elliot. Like the captain said, ‘Daylight's burning.' Taking slow measures won't cause him to change his mind about this outing. The sooner we go, the sooner we get on with it. There's a battle waiting. You have to know that.”

“It can't come soon enough,” Scrap said. “Not soon enough.”