He cold-cocked the chestnut mare, punched her square in the mouth twice for good measure, making sure his goal was accomplished.
The horse screamed, then reared up on her two hind legs. Big Shirt had to whirl his horse around, sending him halfway out of the alley, to avoid the screaming, bucking horse.
Josiah dove away from the mad horse, then rolled across hard ground and came up to squat with his back against the saloon.
Big Shirt fired the rifle, and the bullet pinged off the side of the building, a foot over Josiah’s head.
Even though the air was cool, sweat poured down Josiah’s face.
He could hear Little Shirt moaning. His hand hurt like hell, and his knuckle was bleeding from catching a few of the horse’s teeth with the hard punch.
He felt around the edge of the building and hoped he could slide between the saloon and the neighboring building without getting stuck—or shot at and killed—and make a run for it.
One more deep breath and Josiah was up on his feet, pushing sideways between the two buildings and down the wall as quick as he could, fleeing the Comanche brothers.
Little Shirt was still on the ground, rolling around in agony, and Big Shirt was still on his horse, shooting into the darkness, shouting, swearing he would not sleep until he saw Josiah Wolfe dead and buried.
CHAPTER 5
The entire town of Comanche came alive at the shots from Big Shirt’s rifle. Bright light erupted from the Tall Gate Saloon like it was morning and a gold rush had been feverishly announced. The buildings across the street blazed alive with light and activity. There was a rise of noise, chairs scooting furiously on wood floors, spurs jangling, horses reacting to the shots, prancing at their posts, snorting, tugging, nervous to flee.
Josiah moved slowly, hugging the side of the building, glad that he was wearing dark clothes, making him less of a target—for the moment. His mind was running like an unattended train as he pushed toward the light and commotion, toward the main street that cut through the middle of Comanche.
To say he was in between a rock and a hard place was an understatement. His choices were extremely limited. His hands were still bound with rope, and he had no weapon, no horse, and no idea where the hell he was.
Turning back to face Big Shirt was certain death. He had no choice but to make a run for it—somehow, to somewhere.
He came to the end of the building, his back flush against the outside saloon wall, and stopped to consider what his next move would be.
An empty keg nearly blocked his exit from the compact alleyway, if it could be called that, but Josiah was certain he could jump it.
Another shot rang out behind him, and a bullet dug into the dirt a couple inches from the heel of his boot.
Josiah jumped but did not run out into the light. Not yet.
Another shot came. This time, an inch closer. The next one would be right on target if Josiah didn’t move quickly.
Big Shirt was yelling at the top of his lungs in his native tongue, as he and his horse danced at the other end of the building—a raging silhouette born of wartime nightmares that ended in nothing but blood and death.
Without warning, Big Shirt jumped off the horse and disappeared briefly into the darkness. The shooting stopped, and Josiah saw Big Shirt return and lift Little Shirt to his feet, forgoing a shot at Josiah, instead offering aid to his brother.
There was only a matter of seconds to decide what to do next. Hurrying footsteps through the saloon grabbed his attention as precious seconds ticked away.
Three men pushed through the batwings of the Tall Gate Saloon, turning their heads up and down the street, searching for the cause of the ruckus, each with a gun in his hand, his fingers ready on the trigger.
It only took one short second for Josiah to determine that one of the men was Liam O’Reilly.
Just as Josiah had thought, the outlaw was riding with the law, even though he wasn’t wearing a badge. Not like in Waco. The other two men were unfamiliar to Josiah, but both of them were wearing silver stars on their chests.
If Josiah had been a praying man, he would have started a conversation with God right then and there—or earlier, when he’d been taken captive by the Comanche. But the fact was that Josiah Wolfe wasn’t much of a churchgoer or a praying man. As far as he was concerned his own fate rested squarely on his own shoulders.
He’d never had the curiosity or the push toward church from his parents to decide one way or another whether the promise of eternal life was real or a tall tale. His folks had left that choice up to him. The war had almost made him a believer, his survival a testament to something other than luck . . . but even then, he couldn’t bring himself to ask an invisible force for help as so many of his brethren soldiers had done. But it was his wife Lily’s death that had put the final hard glaze on his heart and shut out any possibility of belief in an all-knowing, all-loving and -forgiving God who had time to come to his side when Josiah needed help.
As his wife and three daughters lay dying from the fevers, the preacher man from Tyler wouldn’t come out to the cabin, though Lily had requested his presence—since she was a believer—to pray them into Heaven, for fear of contracting the sickness himself. Lily was heartbroken and lapsed into a forever sleep, then died, with the certain fear she was on her way to Hell because she had not been blessed by a man of God.
There was no forgiving that man as far as Josiah was concerned.
Big Shirt fired another shot blindly into the alley. This time the bullet grazed Josiah’s calf.
His first instinct was to scream out, but Josiah put his wrist up to his mouth to shield any sound of breathing that might clue O’Reilly and his men in to the fact that he was only a few feet away from them.
He restrained himself as much as he could, bit into the cloth of his shirt, trying his best not to scream out, not to make any noise at all.
Big Shirt called out again, this time for help, clearly in English.
“Damn it, they’ve let loose of Wolfe.” There was no mistaking the Irish brogue, no mistaking Liam O’Reilly’s angry voice. “Stay here, Clarmont, just in case he comes up this way.”
The man nodded in agreement, then O’Reilly and the other man turned and disappeared back into the saloon.
Josiah assumed the two were hustling to the back of the saloon to help Big Shirt. It looked like it would be a one-on-one fight, if it came to that, with the remaining man, Clarmont.
Josiah wanted to avoid fighting the man at all costs. The pain in his leg was worsening, and his pant leg was wet with blood. The air smelled of gunpowder and death, an all too familiar odor that Josiah hoped never to become immune to. But it was his blood he smelled, and the pain was excruciating.
Without any further hesitation, Josiah picked up a rock and chucked it as hard as he could down the boardwalk, opposite the entrance into the Tall Gate.
He quickly scurried to the ground and found another rock that fit neatly into the palm of his hand, a crude weapon, but a weapon nonetheless, which might help even the stakes if he did have to take on Clarmont in a hand-to-hand fight.
The rock clunked on the hard, dry wood, capturing the man’s attention.
“Hey,” Clarmont yelled out. “Who is that?” He walked right by Josiah, who had ducked back behind the keg.
Behind him, Josiah could hear yelling—Irish and Comanche, a mix of anger on two foreign tongues that needed no translator to understand.
Clarmont had his back to Josiah, went about ten feet past him, then he stopped.