The Gila Wars (12 page)

CHAPTER 20

The first fires of camp showed on the hill—small orange
beacons flickering in the distance, dotted haphazardly on the ground, more akin to a starry sky than the earth.

As Josiah had thought, the owl screech they'd heard earlier had been a watch call. They had encountered the first perimeter guard shortly thereafter and were granted immediate access to McNelly's camp. There had begun to be some worry about their safety and return.

Wood smoke filled the air with its comforting, acrid smell. A guitar strummed softly, and a muffled voice attempted to sing a ballad of some kind. The unknown song rose up slowly into the night, offering a bit of entertainment to any human being within hearing distance, and fear or discomfort to any animal, four-legged or otherwise, far or near.

The wind carried the music like it did a bird's collection of notes, without judgment or intention. It was good to hear, and calmed Josiah, allowed him to relax and give up the fear for his own safety. He still worried about Garcia's safety though.

A few tents glowed white from the inside out, but they were dim, the lamp flames turned down low.

Darkness had engulfed the world, but Josiah was glad the slow ride back from Arroyo was over. He was tired and sore; his wounds agitated him. His shoulder hurt, and the scattershot scratches on his face continued to itch and burn. The salve Francesca had put on them had started to fade away, just like the vision he held of her. He could still smell her sweet scent, hear her voice whispering in his ear . . . but it was distant, almost like she had died, instead of been left behind.

Even though the camp was relaxed, sure of the guard mounted around the perimeter, their arrival garnered attention, curious and otherwise.

A growing stir could be heard in the camp, a wave of voices rising, spreading the news that Josiah and Scrap had returned with a prisoner in tow, another Mexican. The only disappointment was that it wasn't Juan Cortina himself.

More logs were tossed on the fire, lighting the trail clearer, more thoroughly, leading directly to Captain McNelly's tent. Fresh pots of coffee were set to brew, and a sizzle of meat tossed to the spit caught Josiah's ear.

He was hungry, more than he'd like to admit. A bite or two of jerky had sustained him from Arroyo. He'd lost his appetite the second he'd recognized Scrap's horse waiting outside the cantina.

The guitar faded away, and the singing stopped once they crested a rise in the hill and the trail descended fully into the camp.

Scrap sat stiffly in his saddle, his back straight, shoulders squared, and his proud, hairless, chin thrust forward. Josiah could only see the back of his head and body, but he knew the look that was on the boy's face. He was sure Scrap was gloating, proud of himself and the injuries he'd inflicted on Garcia—not to mention the blood that had been drawn in the cantina.

Scrap had taken a liking to killing and inflicting pain, and the development more than worried Josiah. Not that Scrap had ever been reluctant on the trigger, he hadn't, but in the past the boy had shown some restraint, some respect for human life. Ever since he'd walked out of the jail in Austin, though, he shot first and didn't bother to ask questions.

The world might not have been at war like it was when Josiah was Scrap's age, but there was a battle raging under the boy's skin. One that Josiah recognized and knew, no matter what he said or did, wouldn't end until it was time. That might happen soon, or never at all. It could go either way with Scrap, and that's what made him so dangerous. He was carrying a load of dynamite, just waiting for it to explode.

Garcia, on the other hand, was demoralized.

His head was hung deep to his chest, and even his horse seemed to sense defeat, that they were on enemy ground with no possible escape to be had. Its head was dropped nearly nose to the ground, and the bushy tail had lost its sway.

The Mexican was going to have to speak up to save his neck, even though Josiah knew now when Cortina was planning on transferring the cattle to the steamer.

Regardless, Josiah was just glad to be back among the Rangers, home for a moment, if it could be called that, where everything was in its place, and his safety wasn't a concern.

Scrap could have all the glory he wanted. Josiah just wanted a decent meal and a good night's sleep.

It didn't take long to reach McNelly's tent. They followed the same path Robinson had, and ended up in nearly the same spot, with a crowd gathering around them, anxious to see and hear what had happened since they'd left.

Scrap stayed mounted on Missy for a moment longer than he should have, surveying the men around him, nodding to no one in particular. It looked like he was trolling for applause, aching for a return worthy of a conquering hero—but none was given. There were only coughs and shuffles. No hands against each other. No praise offered to the boy for doing nothing more than he was sent out to do.

Captain McNelly pushed through the flap of his tent, exiting with curiosity. He was followed closely by Lieutenant Clement Robinson.

The flap remained open for a long second, and it looked like they had been planning an attack. There were maps on a table, scattered with papers and brass distance-measuring devices. A full coffeepot simmered on the fire in front of the tent.

Scrap jumped off Missy and hurried back to Garcia. “Get down, greaser.” He grabbed the Mexican's arm and pulled at it, but Josiah was there next to him in a flash.

“Let the poor man get down on his own,” Josiah commanded.

“He ain't no man. He's a prisoner.”

“No sense treating a man like an animal just because you were,” Josiah said. He could care less that McNelly stood watching them; he'd had enough of Scrap's mistreatment of the Mexican.

Scrap jerked his head back like he'd been smacked. If they had been anywhere else, in private company instead of standing in the middle of a crowd, Josiah was certain that a fight would have ensued. As it was, Scrap held his tongue and glared in return.

“Let the man get down on his own,” Captain McNelly said. Robinson stood over his shoulder, promising a swift response if a scuffle of any kind broke out.

“Yes, sir,” Scrap said, standing back. “You heard the captain, greaser, get down here now.”

Josiah exhaled loudly and offered Garcia his hand. “Come on. You'll not be hurt here.”

“That's right,” McNelly said. “Untie the prisoner, Wolfe. Show him we mean what we say.”

“
Todos ustedes son unos mentirosos
,” Garcia said, as Josiah loosened the rope that had bound his hands.

“Do not think there are none in this camp who are fluent in your native tongue, sir,” Captain McNelly said. “Not all of us are liars, as your statement implies.”

Garcia scowled as he pulled his hands free and shook the circulation back into them. “I have no reason to trust any Anglo.”

McNelly nodded and watched closely as Josiah helped Garcia off the horse. “Bring him inside the tent, Wolfe.”

Josiah touched Garcia's shoulder gently to guide him into the captain's tent. Scrap followed.

“Not you, Elliot. You can wait outside,” McNelly said, then turned and made his way inside the tent.

The crowd of men responded with more coughs and discomfort, but none of them said a word, just watched with unblinking eyes. Scrap must have felt like he was a pile of meat, surrounded by a circle of hungry wolves waiting for the first drop of blood to fall to the ground. Scrap was wounded, but McNelly had delivered a blow to the boy's ego and had left his flesh for another enemy. If Josiah was a betting man, he knew the chance to see blood fall was in the offing and would come sooner, rather than later, especially when McNelly found out that the shipment of rustled cattle was expected on the steamer the next day.

Scrap stood wordlessly, obeying the captain's command, the hardness on his face tightening even more as Josiah and Garcia left him behind and joined McNelly and Robinson inside the tent.

The flap snapped closed loudly behind them and sounded just like a slap to the face had been delivered to an unsuspecting scoundrel.

CHAPTER 21

A thin stream of black coal oil smoke rose up to the ceiling of the tent. The vent flap was wide open, and there
was a noticeable draft, making it as easy as possible for Captain McNelly to breathe. The heat from the day had yet to fully subside, and the interior remained warm, like an oven that refused to cool.

There were three lamps inside the sparsely furnished tent, all of them burning so brightly Josiah had to squint his eyes and adjust to the light. After riding for so long under the darkness, being in camp and inside the tent was a jolt to his entire system.

It looked like no time had passed at all. But Josiah felt different. Weaker in some ways and stronger in others. He had freed himself of Pearl—for the moment, anyway—but was still haunted by his time with Francesca. He wasn't sure he would ever see her again. He wasn't sure that he wanted to. Leaving again would be difficult. Staying would be impossible.

As he had already assumed, a planning session had been interrupted by their arrival.

A map of the King Ranch lay sprawled out on the table. The ranch had been founded a little more than twenty-five years before by the former river pilot Richard King and a Texas Ranger, Gideon “Legs” Lewis. Their first purchase consisted of more than fifteen thousand acres, and continued to grow to this day. There was not a man in South Texas who did not know the Running W brand and the power and influence behind it. The longhorns with that brand were, of course, favored to be stolen by Juan Cortina.

Beyond the map of the King Ranch lay another one, this one showing all of the coast of the Gulf, with a few X marks in red, where Josiah surmised the captain and Robinson assumed the steamer might be waiting. There were also a few charted red lines that showed the possible trek from Cuba to the coast of Texas. But nothing looked certain, including the frustrated look on the captain's face.

Josiah took a breath. He had been in the tent before, but it had been quick. He did not have a personal relationship with Captain McNelly, even though they had shared some time together, normally only under dire circumstances or Ranger business. Josiah was not Leander McNelly's friend. The closest person to McNelly seemed to be Clement Robinson, and even that relationship seemed born of duty.

And after the incident in Arroyo, Josiah still felt a little nervous being in closed places, even though he was on soil that was securely Anglo.

A cot, covered with a familiar type of second-issue Army blanket, tan with dark brown stripes, was stuffed neatly in the corner of the tent. Other than two chairs, one with a tarred haversack carefully hung over it, the table, and the cot, the room was vacant of anything other than a wood chest that looked like it had seen a lot of miles. Leander McNelly liked to travel light, and the almost bare command tent was proof of that.

McNelly sat down at the head of the map table. Robinson stood at the flap, his holster unsnapped, at the ready.

Robinson was tall and imposing and eyed Garcia with suspicion and distaste, but didn't express himself as freely as Scrap had. Just by the look of the man's clothes, nearly a uniform, even though one wasn't required, and his perfectly trimmed long beard, it was easy to tell he was a man of great ambition. Josiah had no doubt that the man would someday become a captain in the Rangers.

Josiah guided Garcia easily to the captain. They all remained quiet for a moment, sizing one another up.

McNelly finally spoke to Garcia. “Sit down.”

“I would rather stand and face my
problemas
.”

“As you wish.”

“I wish to be free,
Capitán
.”

“That is not possible. At least at the moment.”

Josiah stood stiffly next to Garcia, sure to keep his mouth closed until he was called on to speak.

“I am well aware of your desires,
Capitán
. I am just unsure of the price I will pay if I give you what you want. I have a family that I would like to return to. A job in the boatyard that I have worked at since I was a
niño
. I am not a greaser.” The derogatory term hung in the air between Garcia and McNelly. Scrap had used the word freely, as he was apt to do. To Mexicans it was a demoralizing slur, originally used by troops in the Mexican-American War in the 1840s. The lowest occupation a Mexican held, according to them, was greasing the axles of an ox cart. “I am a fine citizen of my country, and I obey all its laws.”

“So you are not a member of Cortina's raiders?”

Garcia's head lowered. “
Sí
, I am.”

“So you are not a fine citizen, as you say.” McNelly stared at Garcia calmly, but he was not going to remain patient for very long. He tapped his finger on the table like a drummer leading a condemned man to the gallows.

“I am a desperate man. I needed the
dinero
, the money. Not all of us are thieves every day. Cortina has taken our weakness and made it his strength. The times in my country are difficult. I am a poor working man with a lot of mouths to feed. Do you have any
niños
,
Capitan
? Surely, you understand?”

McNelly flinched, then ignored the reference. He had two children—a boy, Revel, and a girl, Irene. He rarely spoke of either. “Do you know Rafael Salinas?”

“
Sí
, I do. I am under his command,” Garcia whispered.

“Then you can speak to him if that is necessary to gain your trust. No harm has come to Salinas, and none will come to you. You have my word.”

“I do not trust your word.” Garcia lifted his hand up and touched the raspberry bruise under his eye as softly as he could.

“Tell me of how your capture came to be,” McNelly demanded. There was a sharp edge of annoyance in his voice.

Garcia looked up to the ceiling of the tent, then returned his hard gaze to McNelly. “There were three of us, riding rear guard, protecting those that had collected the beeves. I got separated, and we had agreed we'd meet up in Arroyo if any of us did not return. But I was not lost, or had not tried to outrun the Rangers. I was trying to go back home. I decided I wanted no part of what was to come. I am no killer, either, and I was afraid for my own life. What happens to my
familia
if I am dead? They will surely starve. Their desperation would be worse, not better. I was a fool, thinking an easy
peso
was the solution.

“So, while my two compatriots waited at the cantina, I was sneaking home. They made a grand mistake by showing their anger and guns to the Ranger here, and his hotheaded
amigo
.”

“Is that true, Wolfe?” McNelly asked.

“There
was
a shoot-out in the cantina, sir. I was shot in the shoulder, and these wounds on my face came from a scattergun,” Josiah answered. “I am lucky to have survived, and if it wasn't for the kindness of strangers in Arroyo, I wouldn't be standing here with you now.”

“And Cortina's two men?”

“They are dead. Buried properly in the mission graveyard in Arroyo. They pulled their guns almost as soon as Elliot and I walked in the door. We had no choice but to protect ourselves.”

“And this is true?” McNelly asked Garcia.

“I was not there,” Garcia said, looking to the floor. “But Ranger Wolfe has been
honesto
with me and treated me like a decent human being.”

“And Ranger Elliot?”

“He treated me like a
conejo
.”

“A rabbit?” McNelly said.

“
Sí
, he hunted me down slowly, toying with me like a
zorro
, a fox. I knew he was there long before he attacked, but I could not outrun him. I feel lucky to be alive.”

Captain McNelly looked annoyed by the news of Scrap's actions but said nothing to that effect. “You are safe here.”

“I have no choice but to believe you.”

The captain turned his attention to Josiah. “Your trip was eventful.”

“We are both lucky to be here.”

“Nothing has shown itself since you left. All of the other scouting teams are either still out or came back empty-handed.”

“Garcia has confided in me, Captain,” Josiah said. “The steamer is expected in the bay tomorrow.”

“Is this true?” McNelly asked the Mexican. His breathing seemed to calm, and his face tightened with happy anticipation.

“S
í
, it is.”

“Then we ride at first light,” Captain McNelly said, almost jubilantly.

There was nothing to celebrate as far as Josiah was concerned. The coming dawn meant going into battle once again. And he had stopped looking forward to the opportunity to kill a long, long time ago.