The Badger's Revenge (24 page)

“What? Not keeping her?”

“Taking her back to Comanche?”

“It's the right thing to do,” Josiah said.

Scrap shrugged, kept brushing, and didn't respond any further. He seemed easily lost in the task, glad that Josiah was not laughing at him any longer.

The stalls were just inside two tall doors that were standing wide open. Bright sunlight beamed into the livery, making all of the straw look like gold strands lying on top of the hard dirt floor. From where Josiah was standing, he could see clear blue skies, a reprieve from the dreariness of typical gray November skies. It looked to be a fine day, warm enough for just a long-sleeved shirt and no jacket.

The railroad was about thirty yards to the north of the large barn, and a whistle in the distance announced the coming thunder of steel and steam. It was the early train, one of two freights a day. The sound and rumble would be deafening. At least for Josiah.

Lyle started jumping up and down, squealing. He loved trains.

“Settle down there, boy,” Josiah said.

“Train's a-comin' ! Train's a-comin' !”

“I can hear that. Now, settle down.”

There was another noise that had captured Josiah's attention. Only this one was closer—still distant—but closer. It sounded like yells, screams, hoots and hollers. He cocked his head, making sure he wasn't hearing things.

The mob sounded about as far away as Congress Avenue.

“Train!” Lyle said, jumping up and down, pulling on Josiah's hand toward the door.

“Hush now,” Josiah said, sternly.

Scrap stopped his chores and looked up. “Sounds like a hangin' comin' along with that train. Ain't none that I know of. How about you, Wolfe?”

Josiah shook his head no. “How would I know?” He looked down at Lyle and gave him a gentle tug. “I said stop.”

The tone in Josiah's voice got Lyle's attention. He pursed his lips together tight, stiffened, and exhaled. “All right.”

“That's not what you say, is it?”

Lyle looked up at Josiah curiously. “Yes?”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

No one said anything for a long minute. Josiah nodded his approval, then listened closer, his curiosity growing at the rising noise from a couple of blocks over.

Scrap walked out of the stall and stood next to Josiah. “Little hard on the boy, ain't you?”

“He's got to learn manners sooner or later.”

“You mean ones in English?”

Josiah shot Scrap an angry look; his blue eyes blazed hard as the railroad tracks. Scrap looked away and offered no apology for expressing his opinion about Lyle being raised by a Mexican.

Ofelia had never found herself in Scrap's good graces, and Josiah was certain she never would. Still, there was a point to be made, and Josiah knew it, was seeing it with his own eyes. He just didn't know what to do about it.

The ground began to rumble under Josiah's feet as the train grew closer. Lyle could barely contain himself, but it was obvious, with the restrained look on his tiny face, that he was trying with all of his might.

Just then a man went running past the open doors of the livery.

Scrap pushed past Josiah and ran out the door, coming to a stop. “Hey there, fella.”

Josiah and Lyle joined Scrap, as much out of curiosity as dread, as to what Scrap was going to do next.

The man, short and bald, a butcher's apron still wrapped around his waist, stopped at Scrap's yell.

“What you want there, man?” The man turned to face Scrap and Josiah. His German accent was thick, and the apron and his hands were bloody. Something had stopped him right in the middle of carving his pork.

“What's going on? You know?” Scrap asked.

The bald man nodded. “Rangers is coming into town. Word is they is draggin' a Comanche behind them in ropes. Gonna take it right up to Governor Coke. That I got to see!” he said, turning, running off as fast as his portly body would allow.

Josiah and Scrap looked at each other, said nothing, and started to run after the man. It didn't take Josiah but about three steps into the run before he realized that Lyle had pulled away from him.

The little boy was standing where Josiah left him, looking in the opposite direction, looking at the coming train. The big locomotive was slowing down, blowing off steam, the brakes squealing, the ground shaking hard.

Lyle was set to break into a run toward the train . . . and Josiah knew that with the graze, the wound on his leg, the boy might be more than a match for him. He lunged toward Lyle, missing him just before he lit out.

Lyle ran as fast as he could toward the train, clapping his hands, laughing, never looking back.

“Lyle! Stop!” Josiah screamed.

It took all the energy Josiah had to catch up with Lyle, reaching out for him like he was about to dive off a big cliff and unaware of the drought-ridden creek bed awaiting him at the bottom.

Josiah scooped Lyle up into his arms, his heart beating rapidly, about three feet from the railroad tracks.

He could hardly scold the boy—he was the one who'd gone off and left him. Still, the thought of Lyle running toward the train, being pulled under the wheels just by the pure force of their energy, was something Josiah could not bear to imagine. How could he live with himself if he let something happen to Lyle? Sickness had taken Lily and his three daughters. Negligence would be too much to take. He was sure of it.

The train skidded past, sparks flying from the wheels, smoke rolling off the track from metal on metal, and then the steam. The horn blasted, pushing away any thought, any fear from Josiah's mind.

Lyle clapped and screamed with excitement, and Josiah just let him, held him as tight as he could, tears welling in his eyes. He ignored Scrap, who had stopped, motioning for Josiah to join him.

The butcher disappeared around the corner, and the steam and smoke from the train enveloped Josiah and Lyle. For a long moment, Josiah wasn't sure if either one of them were dead or alive. They were just lost in a fog—hot and sulfur-like—the sun beaming overhead, distant and unreachable.

Congress Avenue was lined three-deep with people.
It was like the Fourth of July had arrived on winter's doorstep, bringing enough excitement to pull every November-weary resident out of the shops, saloons, and normal routines of the day, to the side of the road to see what was coming. Not that the weather was inclement—the sky was as blue as an exotic jewel—it was just surprising to see life as it generally was come to such a halting stop in the center of the capital city.

The crowd was reasonably quiet, necks craning, whispers passing among friends and strangers, shoes curiously rustling on the boardwalk.

It was such an event that it had even drawn the presence of Blanche Dumont, one of Austin's most well-known madams, keeper and arbiter of a prosperous house of ill-mannered ladies, pushing her way to the street for a better view of the rumored Comanche. She reminded Josiah of Suzanne del Toro, another former keeper of soiled doves. Blanche had taken over the girls that worked the Paradise Hotel after Suzanne was murdered. Josiah had never returned there—and hoped he would never have to.

Blanche Dumont rarely left the confines of her house, so seeing her out in public was akin to seeing a rattlesnake stand on its tail and dance of its own accord.

The crowd parted in a wide V as Blanche made her way through the crowd. It was hard to miss her since Blanche was wearing white from head to toe; lace, velvet, and feathers adorning her expensive dress and hat. She looked like a swan making its way out to the center of a pond.

Josiah turned his attention to the street, his interest in Blanche Dumont less than most people's. He didn't know her, had never had an encounter with her, or with any of her girls. He'd been to the cathouse district all right, but only the one visited mostly by Mexicans—Little Mexico—to a house called
El Paradiso
, not to the finer, more expensive houses run by Blanche Dumont.

Those memories in Little Mexico were not pleasant, and his curiosity was so piqued by the sudden arrival of a Comanche on the main street in Austin that he could have cared less whether Blanche Dumont was now walking among the very women and men whose lives her business serviced and routinely affected in a negative manner.

Josiah held tightly to Lyle's hand. The temptation to carry him was great, but the boy was nearly three years old. Regardless of how Josiah felt—fear still coursing through his veins at even the thought of losing Lyle to the wheels of the train—he would not treat his son like a baby.

He had lost sight of Scrap and could barely see over the crowd and into the street.

There was nothing to see at that moment.

He could only hope he knew who the Ranger was, who the Comanche was—he just didn't know why they would be in Austin, heading down Congress toward the capitol building, drawing everyone out to see.

“Been pulled out here on account of nothin',” a man standing next to Josiah said. His teeth were yellow, and he smelled of cows and beer.

Josiah didn't respond, just pushed forward toward the street, making sure Lyle was close to him.

“Why on earth would a Ranger bring a savage heathen into our town?” one woman said to another as Josiah passed by.

It was a quiet statement, almost a whisper. The woman was dressed properly, but plainly—at least in comparison to Blanche Dumont—in a simple dress that fell all the way to the ground and was dark brown in color. She wore no hat, her long hair was piled on top of her head, and the dress bound her so tight at the waist that the woman's pursed lips made her look like she was going to explode at any moment. From the appearance of things, she had been in the midst of a dress buying excursion when the excitement had pulled her out of the store.

At first, Josiah thought the woman was talking to him.

He was thick into the crowd now, shoulder to shoulder. It wasn't until another woman answered that he realized he wasn't being spoken to directly.

The woman responded, “To scare us. That's what I think. So the Rangers will get more money from the governor.”

Josiah pushed on, dragging Lyle with him, constantly looking down to make sure the boy was all right.

The first woman posed a good question, Josiah thought. One he didn't know the answer to. Though he didn't agree with the second woman, he would be interested in seeing what the real reason was for bringing the Indian into Austin.

It took some doing, but Josiah and Lyle made it to the edge of the crowd and could finally see up and down the street.

Scrap Elliot was standing in the middle of the road all by himself, with a big, silly grin on his face. “Hey, Wolfe, looka there, it's B. D. Donley,” he said, pointing south.

The last time Josiah had seen B. D. Donley, Pete Feders had ordered him and two other Rangers to head north out of Comanche to go after Liam O'Reilly.

The other two Rangers, Karl Larson and Slim James, boys Josiah didn't know well, were still riding with Donley—the three of them rode abreast, easing down the street like they were leading a parade.

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.