Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (13 page)

Josiah took a deep breath and lifted Maria to her feet.

She bit her lip, forced back a scream that would surely have drawn more attention to their location. The sound was like a garbled plea, but Josiah was not going to stop until the woman was securely on Clipper's back.

“Are you all right?” he asked, guiding Maria to Clipper.

There was a hustle of noise behind Josiah. Horses running in the opposite direction. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang frantically. The smoke was fading; the wind had changed, sending the charred smell in the opposite direction. None of that activity captured Josiah's attention more than Maria's condition.

He gripped Maria's body as gently as he could and, with all his might, hoisted her, face-first, over Clipper's broad shoulders.

Without thinking of another thing, Josiah quickly slid the Winchester back into its scabbard, then climbed up on the horse.

Clipper remained steady as Josiah balanced himself in the stirrups, pulling Maria up so she could sit in the saddle with him. It was a tight fit, but once he got settled, Josiah could handle the reins in one hand, and put pressure on Maria's shoulder wounds with his other hand.

“Are you ready?” Josiah asked.

Maria didn't answer. She pressed back against Josiah, her body hard, heavy, and unresponsive.

 

 

Chipito was pretty easy to find—all Josiah had to do was head east, away from the incursion of Cortina and his men. He was leery of every new building that came into sight, sure that a man on the roof would rain a volley of bullets their way, but so far, not one person had showed them any concern. Mostly, the streets of Corpus Christi were vacant. The population was either hiding or engaged in the battle in one way or another.

Josiah had gathered Maria up against him as tightly as he could. He didn't run Clipper full out, even though he felt the need to. Close though. Fast enough to control the horse, hold on to Maria, and keep an eye out for any possible threat.

He could feel Maria's heartbeat against his chest. It was weak, but steady. His hand was thick with her blood, and he could smell nothing but life draining out of Maria, mixed with his own sweat and fear.

If she were not a woman, a woman whose life Josiah himself had put in harm's way, then his thoughts would have been forced to return to his memories of the war, to the battles of his past. But the past was overcome by the present, by guilt and responsibility. He had to get Maria the help she needed, find the blue-roofed shack, and hope like hell she had the strength to survive the trip. He didn't know what he was going to do if the woman died.

He was heading east out of Corpus Christi proper. Multistorey buildings quickly gave way to simple houses and then to open, marshy fields. The street quickly turned into a wellused trail, visible on a steady rise as far as the eye could see. Knee-high grass swayed gently on the ocean breeze, and a seabird hung in the air like a child's kite over the water, effortlessly, just floating for the joy of it, it seemed.

The waves from Nueces Bay crashed ashore off to Josiah's right. It was high tide. The air was salty and sweet, a refreshing change from the city and conflict he'd just fled.

The blood from Maria's wound had begun to congeal, the flow slowing. At least it felt like it was slowing. Josiah knew the perception might have been nothing more than hope on his part, but he could still feel her heartbeat, feel her weak breath on his wrist as she exhaled and fought to live.

He said nothing; any words were lost in his sole desire to move forward. Once he crested the rise, he saw a line of fishermen's shacks in the distance, less than a mile away.

Josiah urged Clipper on, pushing the horse to run fast. Maria's breathing was becoming halting, more difficult.

It didn't take long to see a shack with a blue roof.

Josiah gave Clipper his head, stuck the reins in his teeth, and pulled his Peacemaker from the holster, firing off three quick shots, hoping to alert someone that trouble was close—and he was in need of help in the worst way.

At first Josiah didn't see anyone, not one living creature other than the seabird, who took umbrage at the gunshots and flew away quickly. But after a few seconds, he saw a man walk out of the shack—a man that Josiah would have recognized from half a mile away.

His old friend, Juan Carlos, hurried out of the shack as best he could, his hand cupped over his eyes, looking in Josiah's direction.

 

 

Josiah jumped off Clipper, not bothering to say hello to Juan Carlos. “She's been shot.”

“Get her inside,” Juan Carlos said. “Most of the men are out to sea for the day's catch, but Molly Flanagan will be able to help her.”

“I hope so.” As glad as Josiah was to see Juan Carlos, his response sounded clipped, harsh. Without wasting another step or breath, he pulled Maria Villareal off Clipper and carried her into the shack, cradling her like a groom carrying a bride over the threshold. Juan Carlos followed him inside.

The inside of the shack was sparse, but Josiah immediately spied a cot set against the back wall, and eased Maria down onto it as gently as he could.

“Here's some water,” Juan Carlos said, handing Josiah a pitcher with a ladle in it.

Josiah took the pitcher and nodded. “Get her help, now!”

The only response Josiah heard was the quick run of bare feet on the sand as Juan Carlos exited the shack.

He filled the ladle half-full and put it to Maria's lips. Her eyes were closed. Sweat rolled off her brow, and her entire chest was covered in blood. From his experience in the war, Josiah knew if the bullets had severed an artery in her shoulder there were few options to heal the wound.

With a bit of insistence, he pressed the ladle harder against Maria's lips. “Take it,” Josiah said, unsure if she could hear him.

After a couple of more tries, Maria moved her lips, opening them so thinly that all Josiah could do was dribble a bit of water onto them and down her throat.

“Where is Juan Carlos?” Maria whispered.

“Off to get help.”

“If I die . . .” She stopped mid-sentence and began to cough, her eyes opening for the first time since they'd entered the shack. After the cough subsided, she continued, “. . . tell him that I have always loved him.”

The sun was diving toward the horizon, a half-red orb shooting long, shimmering fingers of soft light into the cloudless sky. The day was trying desperately to hold on for as long as it could. Night was racing upward in the east, and darkness dressed all in gray and depression, it seemed to Josiah, was always the victor, regardless of any effort by the sun to fend off the black void. He felt empty and demoralized.

From a stash of driftwood Juan Carlos had built a fire that was now nothing more than a bed of orange, pulsating embers. The coals looked like they were breathing, fanned as they were by the gentle breeze pushing in off the waves, less than twenty feet away. There was little smoke, and it differed in volume and smell from the violent smoke in town that Josiah had experienced earlier in the day.

“We need to catch dinner,” Juan Carlos said. He handed Josiah a large bundle of netting that felt light on one end and heavy on the other.

Juan Carlos was quite a bit older than Josiah, probably nearing seventy. His hair was completely white, most likely bleached completely by time and the sun, and his skin was deep brown, leathery. Wrinkles cut deep rivers of age into his face, and the only thing that belied the notion of his heritage being true Mexican was his intense blue European eyes, which were very similar to those of his white half brother, Captain Hiram Fikes.

But there was something new in Juan Carlos's face and actions that Josiah noticed now that he never had before—his friend seemed weaker than he ever was, perhaps not completely recovered from the gut shot he had taken four months prior. Still, Juan Carlos seemed more than capable of doing whatever needed to be done. He had always possessed an inner strength that Josiah admired.

“What's this?” Josiah asked, taking the netting.

“A casting net for bait fish. Do you know nothing of fishing,
mi amigo
?”

It was hard for Josiah to answer. His mind was still in turmoil over Maria's condition, worrying about her wounds, whether he was truly responsible for her being shot. There was no way he could have left Clipper behind, but now that he knew the outcome of his decision, it was hard not to reconsider leaving his trusted steed. A horse was not worth the loss of a human life.

“I spent most of my time in the woods. Any fishing I did was in the creek not far from our house in Seerville,” Josiah finally said.

Juan Carlos nodded. “This will occupy your mind—trust me—while we await word of Maria.”

Juan Carlos had returned with Molly Flanagan and another woman, who remained unnamed. Both women wore a look of concern when they'd arrived to look after Maria Villareal and had left Josiah and Juan Carlos outside to hurry inside the shack. The doors had remained closed, even now. Every once in a while a moan would escape, muffled voices, but not much else.

“Whatever you say,” Josiah said.

“I say we have to catch bait fish, or there will be no dinner, and leave the fate of Maria in better hands than ours.” With that, Juan Carlos walked straight into the surf and didn't stop until he was knee-deep in the water, the waves occasionally crashing against him waist-high.

Josiah wanted to protest, scream that he wasn't hungry, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled off his boots and socks, rolled up his pant legs to his knees, and waded cautiously into the water.

The light was soft, rays from the sun still reaching up over the western horizon to see out into the distance, where the water met the sky, a colorless line that divided the world.

“Hand me the net,” Juan Carlos instructed Josiah, “and watch.”

The Mexican wrapped a cord around his right wrist, then grabbed the net about six inches from the top. Small, round, smooth rocks were tied into it at even increments, providing weight. Juan Carlos grabbed a rock, about four down, pulled it up, then took the bottom of the net with his other hand, reared back, and launched it into the air. The net burst open like a white blooming flower, fell to the sea in a perfect circle, and sank out of sight. Juan Carlos quickly jerked back and began to pull the net closer to him.

Three slender silvery fish bounced about in the bottom of the net, which had closed together. “
Salmonete
,” Juan Carlos said. “Anglos call them mullet. Bait for fishing.
Dale a un hombre un pescado y lo alimentarás por un día. Enseñe a un hombre a pescar y lo alimentarás para toda la vida.
Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”

Josiah shrugged his shoulders as he watched Juan Carlos walk out of the surf and empty the net into a bucket filled with seawater.
I have no interest in learning how to feed myself at the moment
, he thought, but didn't say.

When the Mexican returned, he handed Josiah the net. “You try. Watch the waves for the flash of silver, watch for the schools to run. I will spot them for you. Then throw the net into the water as gently as you can.”

Josiah turned the net over in his hands, untangled it, and situated the weight in his hand just like Juan Carlos had. He watched the man, glad to be with his friend, though he would have preferred better circumstances. There was no way he could take his mind off Maria—or what might be happening in that shack.

“There!” Juan Carlos shouted, pointing to a wave.

At first, Josiah could barely see the fish in the fading light. He squinted, focused on the rolling water, and finally saw the school of fish swimming right under the surface. He tossed the net toward the fish. It hit the water with a thump, and the fish scattered.

It took five tries before Josiah actually netted a mullet, and in all that time, he had no other thoughts . . . or regrets.

 

 

“Here,” Juan Carlos said, offering a stick to Josiah with a freshly cooked fish on it. “
Caballa
are plentiful here, Señor Josiah.”

After the sun had gone down, by the light of a torch, they had fished with the bait they both caught, with Juan Carlos proving to be a knowledgeable fisherman.

Josiah knew little about the fish of the ocean, what their names were or even what most tasted like. His tongue knew the taste of squirrel meat and the different flavors of beef. Fish were caught out of the streams and creeks. Redear and catfish, nothing with teeth. And eating even those was rare—usually out of desperation.

“You would call this fish mackerel,” Juan Carlos said, urging Josiah to take the stick again.