The Indians’ plans seemed even more certain, and since they had the upper hand and had not killed all three of them in one fell swoop, their action propelled Josiah to believe even more that something was afoot that he did not understand.
What lay ahead of him was well within the grasp of his imagination, though.
He had seen firsthand what a swarm of Comanche or Kiowa warriors could—and would—do to a defenseless man. Their savagery was firmly planted within the locality of his nightmares, even worse than any of the hauntings he had brought back to Texas from the War Between the States.
And leaving Clipper behind was like leaving family. Other than his two-year-old son, Lyle, who was his only living flesh and blood, back in Austin, the horse was almost all he had to care about in this world.
Big Shirt said something to Little Shirt in Comanche, in a knowing, and hard, whisper.
There was no way to translate the language; the words were a jumble of nasally grunts and sounds that didn’t make any sense to Josiah. Still, it was obvious that the Indians had come to the next part of their plan, and Little Shirt was giving orders of some kind, since Big Shirt nodded, his eyes unblinking until the last syllable was spoken.
Little Shirt whistled, and within a second or two, a trio of horses appeared from behind the closest outcropping of rocks.
There was not a man, or Ranger, in Texas who wasn’t aware of and did not silently respect the prowess most Comanche demonstrated when it came to horsemanship.
They were legendary trainers and riders, the success of many of their battles based solely on the abilities they put to use atop their mounts. All three horses were mustangs, one tall, fully chestnut mare, that had a hard look in her eyes, like she was full of rage, and two paints, one mostly white with small blotches of chestnut.
Little Shirt pulled back, leaving only Big Shirt with his rifle barrel pushed against Josiah’s skull. There was no chance, yet, to break away. The short Indian grabbed the three horses’ leads and walked them over to Josiah and Big Shirt.
“Get on. But don’t try to be brave, Ranger. Your life means nothing to me,” Big Shirt ordered.
“Where to?”
“Do you believe in Hell?”
Josiah hesitated. “I’ve been there before.”
“Get on,” Big Shirt repeated. “The missionaries would be disappointed in you, Josiah Wolfe.”
“They need to get a look at Hell for themselves,” Josiah said.
“Something we agree on,” Big Shirt said.
Josiah felt the pressure of the rifle barrel leave the back of his neck. But Little Shirt had him square in his sights, Red’s long gun, a .50-caliber carbine, aimed straight at Josiah’s head.
It was no use trying to escape.
He could not abide being a prisoner, but leaving this world because of that, leaving all that he held dear and had managed to love again, was not worth it.
He heaved himself up on the horse, the tall chestnut mare. She was not amused, and snorted and rustled backwards as he got settled on the horse’s strong back. There was no saddle, just a well-worn blanket.
Big Shirt mounted his horse, a smaller paint, and took over holding Josiah at bay as Little Shirt followed suit and mounted his own horse.
Now that all three of them were atop their respective horses, Little Shirt eased into the lead and let out a shrieking hoot and holler, a scream that was more suited to a nighttime attack from a cougar or coyote than a man.
The Comanche legged his horse deeply with his knees, urging it to break away and run.
Before Josiah knew what had happened, Big Shirt slapped the rump of the chestnut mare, and she tore out after Little Shirt. Big Shirt was close on Josiah’s tail, and both Comanche had their rifles in hand, a bullet just a pull of the trigger away from cracking his skull wide open, putting a permanent end to his conscious knowledge of daylight and his pursuit of a full, satisfied life.
Dust obscured Josiah’s vision, but he could see enough to know that they were going to circle the tree that Scrap and Red Overmeyer were bound to.
He had no control of the horse. The mare acted like he did not exist on her back.
Both Comanche continued their screams and yells. “Yip, yip, yaw!”
Josiah could see Scrap struggling against the bindings of the rope, though it did him no good. At that moment, Scrap’s fate was far from certain, and it looked like the boy could barely breathe.
Fear was not a characteristic Josiah was accustomed to seeing in Scrap’s eyes. He had only known the young Ranger since May, since joining up with the Frontier Battalion in San Antonio. Since then, the two had been thrown together in a few skirmishes that could have gone badly for Josiah if it hadn’t been for Scrap’s shooting and riding skills. There were times when Josiah liked Scrap well enough, like when he kept his mouth shut, and there were other times when the kid just plain got on his last nerve. Scrap was moody and unpredictable, traits he needed to shed if he was going to be a good Ranger—if he got the chance, if he survived.
As they rounded the tree, Red Overmeyer made eye contact with Josiah.
Unlike Scrap, Overmeyer did not struggle, did not try to scream through his gag. Instead he looked away from Josiah, then lowered his head to the ground, like he had already surrendered to a predestined fate.
In a swift and sudden pull of the trigger, Little Shirt fired the carbine, his aim perfect.
Red Overmeyer’s head slammed back against the tree in an explosion of blood and bone. The only scream to rise into the air came from both Indians in a victorious cheer. Scrap’s scream was frozen in his throat, muffled by the kerchief stuffed in his mouth and his own fear.
Josiah jumped at the explosion, expecting it but shocked and scared by it nonetheless. He feared Scrap was next, then his turn, too—but it did not escape Josiah’s attention that Red had just been shot by a bullet from his own rifle.
The three circled the tree again. Big Shirt fired his rifle this time, hitting Red directly in the heart. If there was any chance that Overmeyer was suffering, that thought came to a quick end. He was dead, though his eyes were wide open, fixated on the ground, unfazed by the cascading blood from the first shot.
With that, the two Comanche brought all three horses nose to nose, putting Josiah and the angry chestnut mare even more tightly in between them, the reins of Josiah’s horse secure in Big Shirt’s hand.
They pushed around the tree again in a fast circle, without firing another shot, then headed south, leaving Scrap Elliot in a cloud of dust, blood, and flies that already smelled opportunity, the hoots and hollers of the Indians rising to the clouds, along with Red Overmeyer’s soul. If a man believed in such a thing.
CHAPTER 3
A solid blanket of gray clouds had pushed its way east to reveal the promise of a beaming, late autumn sun and a pure cloudless sky. There was no weather, or any other apparent obstacle, that would slow the unlikely trio down.
Big Shirt said they were going to Hell for a visit.
As far as Josiah was concerned, there was no turning back now. Elliot would have to fend for himself, find his way out of the bindings and off the tree—or die there from starvation, if Josiah couldn’t escape and turn back to free his fellow Ranger.
At the moment, there were some questions to be answered, and the only Hell that Josiah could conceive of was the Hell that Big Shirt and Little Shirt were going to pay at the first opportunity he could deliver it.