The method of delivery was immaterial. A rock, a fist, a kick with a hard boot heel to the throat, crushing the Adam’s apple of either of his captors. He liked the thought of them suffering, dying a slow death, like what was promised him and delivered to Red Overmeyer. It would be interesting to see who the promise came to first.
Josiah was not encouraged by the clear sky.
The coming of a near perfect day offered little hope that everything was going to be all right, that it would work out—his life didn’t work like that. A storm would provide more opportunity for escape. As it was, Josiah’s blood ran hot, and his hands, though still bound tightly, ached to get a hold of a gun. But all he could do was ride the angry chestnut mare and spit at Little Shirt.
Little Shirt pulled a pistol from a holster belted on his side, Josiah’s .45-caliber Colt, his Peacemaker, and pointed it at him in one swift, angry pull. “Do that again, Ranger, and I’ll kill you.”
“What’s stopping you?” Josiah spit again, this time hitting his target right between the eyes.
Josiah had decided he wasn’t going to wait to get to Hell. He was already there.
Little Shirt was either going to kill him right then and there, or he was going to give Josiah an opportunity to break the horse he was riding out of the Indian’s grip and flee toward the perfect blue sky.
Josiah was willing to die trying to save himself—therein saving Scrap, too, if he could make it back to the kid. He wasn’t willing to be a passive captive. He wasn’t willing to live with Red Overmeyer’s untimely death on his shoulders and just surrender to the two Comanche, and let them lead him to Hell or beyond.
Little Shirt screamed something in his own language from deep within his heaving chest, then wiped away the wad of spit as quickly as he could.
Comanche was just as baffling a language to Josiah as Spanish was, but there was no mistaking that the Indian was angry. Josiah chuckled. “Kill me now.”
Without warning, Little Shirt brought his horse and Josiah’s adopted ride to a sudden stop, the Peacemaker still aimed at Josiah’s head. Little Shirt raised the barrel and pulled the trigger.
The blast nearly shattered Josiah’s eardrums as the bullet whizzed by his temple, barely missing him.
The bullet was so close he felt the breeze and energy of it, felt the reverberation of the report, could taste and smell the gunpowder. Breathing was like eating fire; his throat was immediately raw.
For a second, Josiah Wolfe thought he was a dead man.
Only then did he realize how foolish he’d been, allowing his anger to get the best of him.
His life did not flash before him. He had been in too many tough spots for that to happen. Sometimes, he was certain that death was riding sidesaddle along with him. The ghosts of his past, his wife Lily and their three daughters, trailing after him in an ethereal form, biting at the bit, waiting on the chance for a long overdue reunion. It was nonsense, the thought of eternity with those that he had loved and lost, but at the moment, the fleeting thought of it gave him an odd bit of comfort.
Big Shirt screamed back at Little Shirt in Comanche.
Whatever was said forced the Indian to drop his aim. It sounded like gibberish. A coyote calling in the evening for its mate. A snarling cougar, set on its prey, cornering it, offering the weaker opponent one last moment to consider escape. There was nothing about the Comanche language that Josiah found beautiful or lyrical. It was all hate and anger. Especially now.
“I am stopping him, Josiah Wolfe. You are not to be killed, or we will be killed,” Big Shirt said.
Josiah cocked his head. How odd was it that the Indians had received nearly the same order he had—bring them back alive. But for what? And why?
“Why did O’Reilly put you up to this?” Josiah forced the words out of his dry mouth, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.
The cloud of gun smoke wafted away behind them, slowly dissipating into nothingness. The ringing in his ears continued, though, providing enough evidence of the shot for him to continue on.
“I have no reason to answer your questions,” Big Shirt said. “But know if you try to escape, or attempt to provoke my brother again, I will shoot you myself and suffer the consequences. We are not far from our destination. If you run, you will be caught, and you will die a slow, painful death. The vultures will tear at your skin as you take your last breath. That is my promise. Do you understand?”
Josiah thought about spitting at Big Shirt, but quickly thought better of it. Big Shirt and Little Shirt were brothers. That was news. They didn’t look anything alike. “What are your names?” Josiah demanded, not taking his eyes off his Peacemaker that now rested tightly on Little Shirt’s hip.
“There is no need for names. We will not be friends, Josiah Wolfe,” Big Shirt said. “You can count on that.”
The killing of Red Overmeyer was not the first time Josiah had witnessed the death of a fellow Texas Ranger at the hands of an Indian, nor did he expect it to be the last.
Even though he had known Red a short time, since July, when Josiah had first joined the company of Rangers at the Red River camp, he’d considered Red a friend as much as a partner on the trail, and had been more than glad to have him at his side on the mission assigned to him by Pete Feders.
Overmeyer was trustworthy, or seemed to be in the short time they had known each other. Josiah had never detected a lie, or even a hint of dishonesty, in their many conversations. The man was a handy scout, as well, but this time out, the tracking skills that had led to a long and productive life, if it were to be judged by the oversized belly Red sported and the tales he told, had failed to detect Big Shirt’s brother.
At the moment, Red Overmeyer seemed to have suffered the harshest punishment possible for his failure, and there was no way to know what had happened to Scrap, or what lay ahead for Josiah.
He had no idea where they were heading—they had gone north, then northwest. The old Corn Trail was not that far away, a military supply road that would lead right up to the town of Comanche—settled and occupied by Anglos, not Indians, so Josiah thought that Big Shirt and Little Shirt would probably avoid that town at all costs.
Unless, of course, they had left their band and joined up with Liam O’Reilly and his gang—which was the implication, since they knew who Josiah was and had specific knowledge of O’Reilly and his wicked demeanor.
Still, the two Comanche had not declared allegiance with the man they called the Badger. O’Reilly’s name could have been a ruse to instill fear in him—which, if that were the case, was a mistake. All the Irishman’s name did was provoke anger, and the only fear Josiah had was of losing control of his actions again.
The two Comanche brothers had drawn Josiah in even tighter with a rope around his waist tied to Big Shirt’s horse.
Little Shirt had control of the rope that held Josiah’s hands, as well as the reins to the chestnut mare.
Josiah missed being on Clipper’s back. He had ridden the tall Appaloosa for several years now, and the horse knew his touch as well as any horse could. It was like they were one full being when they rode together, especially under duress. Josiah was certain that Clipper could read his mind, know when to turn before Josiah knew he was even going to turn, or cut when the call for a quick escape demanded it. But now Josiah was on his own. The mare he was riding did not respond to the pressure of his knees or the sharp jabs of his boot heels. He could have been a dead man for all the horse seemed to care. It understood Comanche, not English.
In the past, there had been a few times Josiah had been left to his own devices. Even as a member of the Texas Brigade, he had rarely found himself so ill-equipped to save himself. He had fought hand to hand next to Charlie Langdon, the former, and now dead, leader of the gang Liam O’Reilly was a member of, and had possibly re-formed and now headed up.