Thunder boomed in the distance, so far away the claps were more like drumming echoes—or cannons firing in a war that had yet to reach the confines of Texas, but surely would soon enough.
The thunder drew Josiah’s attention away from the window, and then, without one quick look of regret around the loft, he shimmied down the ladder.
“Where’s Pa?” Josiah asked, rubbing his forearms, shivering, as he planted his bare feet on the cold plank floor.
His mother had her back to him, standing over the stove. He was at least a head and a half taller than she was, had been since he was nigh on fifteen, a summer when he’d shot up as quick and tall as a hearty corn stalk. Her hair was pulled back and wound up off of her shoulders for the day’s work ahead. There were faint brittle streaks of gray mixed in with her soft dark brown hair. Age was marking his mother with thin wrinkles and those hints of gray, almost too invisible to see, but she still looked young to Josiah.
The smell of hot bacon grease met with the aroma of coffee, and Josiah’s stomach complained loudly. A piece of bread sizzled and fried in the skillet, and a pot of beans began to bubble.
“It isn’t much.” His mother turned and faced him. Her eyes betrayed any strength she may have found in her morning routine; they brimmed with tears, a dam ready to burst. She spun quickly back around to the stove, flipping the bread, so, perhaps, he would not see her cry. There was no need. He had heard her soft cries throughout the night. There was no comforting her. He had tried for days after his enlistment, to no avail. She opposed the war inside the walls of her own home, and she was opposed to Josiah fighting in it no matter the reason or cause.
Josiah took a deep breath and bear-hugged his mother from behind. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know. That doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Where’s Pa?”
His mother wiggled a bit uncomfortably, and Josiah eased back, freeing her from his gentle embrace.
“He went into town,” she said.
“Seerville?”
She shook her head no. “Tyler.”
“But the boys are mustering in Seerville, then we’re off north to meet up with the rest of the Brigade.”
“I know. I tried to talk him out of it. But you know how your father is.” She served up his breakfast on an enamel plate and handed it to him, forcing a smile. “Eat up. We haven’t much time.”
Josiah did as he was told, hurried to the small table and sat in his regular chair, glaring at the empty one that was his father’s.
The year before Josiah was born, his father had fought in the Cherokee War of 1839. The Battle of Neches occurred just a few miles outside of Tyler. Three Texans were killed and five wounded. One of the wounded was Josiah’s father, and he had walked with a limp in his right leg ever since. Josiah had never known his father when there wasn’t some pain to bear because of the injury, but it was never discussed, never talked about, never given credence or used as an excuse. More than a hundred Indians were killed in that battle, the rest driven into the Arkansas Territory, and after healing, Josiah’s father lost his taste for war and killing, but he had not tried to stop Josiah from joining the Texas Brigade.
Leonard Wolfe knew better than anyone that Josiah would be subjected to unbearable scrutiny and prejudice if he did not go off to war like the rest of the boys in the area. Josiah was healthy, of age, and it was his duty to prove his love of Texas, and now the Confederacy. But Leonard Wolfe did not encourage the enlistment, either, or show any more joy than his wife did, when Josiah made his decision to follow his friends into battle. Instead, he acted as though nothing had happened at all.
The storm that had been on the horizon settled squarely above the cabin. Josiah finished his breakfast and hurried to get ready, ignoring the push of rain and cold wind under the door.
It only took minutes for him to prepare to leave; everything had been packed and readied the night before. A satchel and a long gun stood waiting at the door. He would travel light until he was given a uniform and the rest of what he needed for battle. Skills, he hoped, waited, too. His mother stood, her head down, waiting next to the door, along with his gear, a tin of warm biscuits in her hand.
Josiah stood before her, trying to be the man he knew he had to be, walking away from his boyhood home.
“Don’t be angry with your father, Josiah. You are his only son, and he knows the cost of war more than we.”
“He should be here.”
“He has done his best.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
His mother’s chest heaved heavily, the air deflating out of her body in a certain and sudden sigh of resignation. “You are too like him to leave your anger behind. Write to me.” She hugged him quickly, kissed him on the cheek, then threw open the door, and said, “Be careful now, you hear?” She thrust the tin into his hands.
Josiah took it, setting his jaw hard in place, grinding his teeth so he would not allow a tear to be shed. “I will do my best, Ma, I promise.”
“I know. But stay clear of bad sorts. Pick your friends carefully.”
“I have friends.”
“Charlie Langdon is not your friend.”
“Ma,” Josiah protested.
“Don’t argue. Be wary—the Langdons have always had a troublesome, untrustworthy streak. Now, go. Go, before I lock you inside the house and never let you leave.”
Josiah hesitated, then returned his mother’s kiss, grabbed his gear, and headed out into the raging, cold wind, ignoring the thunder, lightning, and the sound of his mother sobbing behind the door like someone had died in her arms.
He ran toward town, toward the regiment that was waiting for him, hoping that his father would be waiting for him along the road. But he wasn’t. His father was gone, and Josiah was left to face the most important day of his life without a word of advice, a comforting nod, or a wink of the eye that acknowledged an inkling of pride. He could barely contain his rage.
CHAPTER 1
November, 1874
The first shot didn’t come as a surprise.
Josiah Wolfe and two other Texas Rangers from the Frontier Battalion, Scrap Elliot and Red Overmeyer, had tracked a lone Comanche scout easing into a dry creek bed, taking cover in a thin stand of brittle switchgrass.
The Comanche had seemed certain he hadn’t been seen—but now he knew he was wrong. The trio had been aware of the scout’s presence for more than a couple of miles, following after him, as stealthily as possible, to a spot where they were certain they had enough cover to engage the Indian and return him to camp for questioning, as they had been ordered to do by the captain of their company, Pete Feders.
Indians had been rustling cattle, and the Rangers had been charged with bringing a stop to the practice. Good, bad, or otherwise, there didn’t seem much end to the rustling. Josiah hadn’t objected to the assignment, but he did find it curious that Feders wanted a Comanche captured, not killed. The only thing Josiah could figure was the Rangers were getting a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later and Feders had been instructed by the higher-ups, more specifically either Major John B. Jones or Governor Richard Coke himself, to polish their reputation a bit. Didn’t make much sense though, since killing Indians did more for their reputation than anything else.