Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (20 page)

A sudden hush fell over the saloon. Not one man dared to breathe, including Josiah, who was about to throw a punch at a man who had appeared out of nowhere and punched him solidly in the mouth. The blow had dizzied Josiah, but left him standing on his feet with enough strength to muster a retaliation.

Blood drizzled out of the corner of Josiah's mouth, the taste salty and sour at the same time, mixed with the whiskey and the adrenaline from the riotous fight.

“Clean it up, and get the hell out of here,” the barkeep yelled, lowering the barrel of the shotgun with a sudden sweep downward, fanning out to the center of the room, threatening to begin firing into the crowd at any second.

It was nothing short of a stampede as every man rushed for the door, all of them clearing out of the saloon as quickly as they could. Josiah was forced to keep up or get pushed to the floor. Everyone took the barkeep seriously.

It only took a minute to push through the doors of the saloon and be out of shotgun range and able to break free of the running mob.

Most men were laughing now, the aftermath of the fight transforming into a glow of satisfaction and relief from the pent-up rage that had started the whole thing in the first place. Rarely was a fight on that scale a personal matter. Months on a cattle drive can be maddening and lonely, and the same can be said for the shepherds, out with sheep, moving them from range to range, without seeing another human being for months.

Josiah got his bearings—to search for the Mexican, Miguel, and to look down the street and see Scrap riding toward him with another man trailing after him, not far behind.

 

 

“Lord have mercy, Wolfe, what in tarnation did you get yourself into?” Scrap asked, a half smile on his face as he slid off Missy and met Josiah face-to-face.

“Just a friendly fight,” Josiah answered, his words slurring together slightly as he wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Are you drunk?”

“Have you ever seen me drunk?”

“Not until today.”

Josiah rolled his eyes. He wasn't in the mood to argue with Scrap. All he wanted to do was find a place to bed down for the night, then get as far away from Ingleside as he could first thing in the morning.

“Marshal's gonna go wake up the telegraph operator, get him to send the news about Cortina's raid to Austin,” Scrap said.

The other man that had been trailing after Scrap waltzed up and stood in between the men like he belonged there, like he had known the two of them all his life, even though Josiah had no clue who the man was. He was in his late thirties, with a droopy mustache that matched his droopy eyes, and clothes that hung on his skinny frame. “You must be Wolfe,” the man said, sticking his hand out for a shake.

“Most people know me as Zeb Teter,” Josiah said, casting a scowling glance at Scrap—who just shrugged and smiled in return.

“Your secret's safe with me, Ranger. Phil Harlan's my name. I'm the marshal here in Ingleside.”

The man had a hearty handshake for looking so much like a weakling. Josiah assumed the eight-inch-barreled Colt on his hip was a warning as such, for the uninitiated to take him seriously.

“Safe or not, Marshal Harlan, I'd just as soon keep my name quiet. I spent a lot of time in Corpus trying to get people to believe in me.”

“How'd that turn out for you?”

Josiah cocked his eyebrow. “What are you saying?”

“Not saying anything, just askin'. Don't matter much anyway, since I figure you won't be staying around long. Unless you'd like to give Bert Shoose a hand at patching his roof again.”

“That eight-gauge was nearly as big as the barkeep,” Josiah said with a chuckle, relaxing on the marshal's tone.

“Bert's a good man. Just ain't got much patience for a fight. That eight-gauge makes my job easier and keeps a few good men in work cleanin' up after the mess he makes with it.”

Josiah relaxed a bit more, the pain from the fight subsiding. Leathers caught his attention, coming to a stop on the boardwalk, just outside the hotel entrance.

“We'll be leaving in the morning,” Josiah said.

The marshal nodded. “I best get on. The sooner Austin knows of the war with Cortina, the sooner we'll get some help down here.”

“I wouldn't count on that,” Scrap said.

Marshal Harlan grimaced. “You might be right. I sure as heck hope not. There's a back room with a couple of cots down at the jail if you fellas need a place to flop for the night. Feel free to stable your horses there, too.”

“That's kind of you, Marshal,” Josiah said.

“Well, I'll tell you, if I didn't have a wife and three little girls waitin' for me at home, I'd join right up with you and be a Ranger myself,” Marshal Harlan said. “But I'd be hard-pressed to convince my wife that ridin' roughshod on the trail with a bunch of boys is a way to make a living. Besides, that ain't no way to raise a family, is it?”

Scrap glanced over at Josiah and kept quiet.

Josiah's mouth had gone dry, and his stomach felt like he'd been punched solidly. “Thank you for your kindness, Marshal Harlan. We'll try not to be any more trouble before we leave.” The tone was cold, all business, as was the look on Josiah's face.

The marshal turned and headed south, not so much in a hurry, but he seemed glad to be relieved of Josiah and Scrap's company.

“Some men don't know what they're sayin',” Scrap said.

“Doesn't matter,” Josiah answered. “Why don't you go get the horses bedded down in the marshal's stable. I'll be there shortly.”

“Where you goin'?”

“I need to thank a friend for saving me a bit of trouble.”

 

 

Leathers was sitting on a bench just to the left of the hotel door, smoking a cigarette. “Didn't expect to see you again, Teter.”

“Wanted to thank you for fighting along with me instead of against me.”

“I have no quarrel with you.”

“I was about to have one with you.”

“That was the whiskey sitting on your tongue talking the devil's talk.”

“Could be, but I appreciate the intention. So, thanks. It was good of you.” Josiah turned to walk away.

“Are you lost, Zeb Teter?”

He stopped. “I know where I'm at. Why would you ask that?”

“You just seem like a man who's lost an arm, but acting like you're still carrying it with you.”

Josiah squished his forehead. “Is that what monks do?”

“What's that?”

“Ask questions that don't make any sense?”

Leathers laughed out loud, exposing his yellow teeth and a twinkle in his eyes that made him look years younger. “Well, I suppose that's part of it, but I gave up being a monk a long time ago. The best I could, anyways. You just look like you could use a friend, Zeb, that's all.”

“Problem is, I think I've lost one,” Josiah said.

“Well, that's never easy, Zeb, but it's not the end of the world.”

“I'm not so sure of that.”

“You know what, me either,” Leathers said, tapping the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot. “Me either.”

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, but Josiah had pulled himself out of a deep and restless sleep to spend some time brushing Clipper, readying the Appaloosa, and himself, for what came next.

His body ached and his head pounded, obvious ailments from the aftermath of drinking too much whiskey and being in a fight. Each time he drank too much, Josiah promised himself it would never happen again—especially once he returned home to Austin. But that was turning into a false promise, one that he continued to break the longer he was away from home, from the touchstones that told him who he was.

Marshal Harlan's words about family, and the demands of the Ranger life, had circled around in Josiah's head like a worm trapped in an apple, as he'd tried to sleep off the fight and whiskey of the prior night. The words were a nightmare within themselves, but like Scrap said, the sheriff didn't know what he was saying, didn't know that he had hit a nerve with Josiah, talking about the toll of Ranger life on a family.

In reality, Josiah doubted that he would be a Ranger, either, spending weeks and months away from home, if his own family were still alive.

Still, he loved the Rangering life, though the most recent spate of time spent as a spy was not a duty he cared to repeat. Josiah liked being in a company, liked the structure of the battalion. There were certainties, things were common. You knew what to expect, unlike the past few days and weeks.

As he continued to brush his horse, lost in his thoughts and glad for the silence, Josiah allowed himself a moment of grief, not only for the loss of Maria Villareal, but for the damage done to his friendship with Juan Carlos.

There was an empty spot inside him that he didn't know how to fill. It was like experiencing a sudden, unexpected death, the emotion too raw to know what to do. More whiskey was not the solution, as far as Josiah was concerned, but neither was sulking about things he could not change. That had never been his way, and he vowed silently that it wouldn't be now.

Regardless of his deep feelings, he had a lot of unanswered questions that were starting to nag at him about what he had been doing in Corpus Christi in the first place, what Miguel and Maria Villareal's motives really were, and whether Cortina had a real vendetta against him. Was he still a hunted man? Josiah had thought those days were past.

“Looks like you're fixin' to leave, Wolfe.”

The voice startled Josiah out of his thoughts. He turned, his hand instinctively dropping quickly to his Peacemaker.

Once he saw Marshal Harlan standing there, holding two tin cups of steaming coffee, Josiah loosened his grip on the gun and relaxed his trigger finger. “Sorry, Marshal, I didn't hear you walk up,” he said.

“Understandable, Wolfe, don't worry about it. Coffee?” Harlan offered Josiah a cup, his expression just as droopy and sad-looking as the night before.

Josiah nodded, gladly taking the coffee. He took a long, deep drink, pleased to rid his mouth of any whiskey residue. “That's damn fine coffee, Marshal.”

“Thanks. Not much I can do around a stove but make a pot of coffee. It helps to ease the mornin' along with a swig of somethin' that don't stand your hair on end.”

Josiah feigned a quick smile, then looked away from the marshal. He was wearing a clean set of clothes. A tear in his faded red shirt had been mended nicely. There was evidence of a woman's touch in the marshal's appearance that Josiah immediately recognized, and was sorely beginning to miss in his life. He found himself envying any man who enjoyed the comforts of a female presence in his life.

“Heard back from Austin,” Harlan said, sipping his coffee, looking over the rim of the cup. His mustache was nearly fully immersed in the coffee. “They're mustering McNelly back into full service and sending him to Corpus Christi. You're to meet the company in Goliad, you
and
your friend Elliot, to settle on a plan.”

“Goliad?”

Harlan nodded. “ 'Bout sixty miles to the north of here.”

“I'd like to keep my cover as a hide trader as long as I can.”

“Is that somethin' I should be worried about, Wolfe?”

Josiah shrugged. “Maybe. I'm not quite sure about any of the events of the last few days. They're all a jumble in my mind at the moment.”

“Well, I'd say you'd be safe in Ingleside, but I sure can't guarantee you that. Besides, orders is orders.”

“I appreciate your hospitality, Marshal,” Josiah said, patting Clipper's neck. The horse stood comfortably, waiting.

“There's a cattle drive heading out this mornin', you might want to tag along with them until you get to Goliad. Most of them fellas in the saloon last night were blowin' off steam before taking to the long trail to Abilene. Spring's like that in these parts. I've come not to pay any mind to the silliness of men getting ready for a long, hard journey.”

“That might be a good idea,” Josiah said. He thought back to the saloon, to thinking he saw Miguel—maybe, just maybe, the Mexican had endeared himself in a way to someone who would let him ride north, away from the certainty of violence in Corpus. He was one hell of a guitar player, and he seemed to know far more about Cortina and what was going on than he was willing to say.

“Well, it'll be about four days before McNelly lands there, and nobody would pay you any mind if you were with the crew.”