Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (21 page)

“That's true.”

“Beats bein' out there on your own, amongst the Apache, or the men ridin' with those minute groups, all in a rage to find and kill any Mexican they can. It's rough country, even for an experienced man on his own,” Marshal Harlan said.

“I can handle myself,” Josiah said, as he turned his attention to an open window and put his index finger up to his lips to quiet the marshal. He was certain he'd heard a twig snap, or something, like somebody was standing outside the window listening to them.

The marshal nodded. “I'm sure you can. Just a friendly suggestion, that's all,” he said, acting like there was nothing wrong.

Josiah eased his Peacemaker back out of his holster and crept over to the window. He swept up, bringing the barrel of the gun out first, then looking up and down the alleyway behind the livery. There was no one there.

“I'll think on it, marshal,” Josiah said, shaking his head. “But I expect you're right. The drive would be a good place for me and Elliot to fit in for the next few days, allow me to piece together what's happened.”

“A little jumpy there aren't you, Wolfe?”

“Wouldn't you be?” Josiah asked, sliding the Peacemaker back to its rightful place.

Marshal Harlan forced a smile, then turned and walked back inside the jail, just as Scrap was coming out of the back door of it, wiping sleep out of his eyes, his shirt not buttoned up yet.

“I thought I heard y'all talkin'. What's going on, Wolfe?” Scrap asked.

“Marshal heard back from Austin,” Josiah said. “They're sending McNelly down here to quiet things down. We're supposed to meet up with him in Goliad in four days.”

“Hot damn!” Scrap jumped up and spun around, a smile glued to his face, ear to ear.

Josiah scratched his head. “You weren't standing outside just now listening, were you?”

“No. How come you're askin' me that?”

“Doesn't matter, was probably nothing. What're you so excited about anyway?”

“We're gonna go back into battle to settle this thing down with them damn Mexicans. They'll learn this ain't their country once and for all. We get to go back to fightin' with all the boys at our side. No offense, Wolfe, but this spy business is lonely work, and I just don't like it so much.”

“I understand, Elliot,” Josiah said, tossing the saddle blanket on Clipper's back. “On that note, I surely do agree with you.”

The trail boss was easy enough to find. He was standing alone at the rear of the chuck wagon, staring out over a herd of at least two thousand longhorns that were grazing easily on fresh, spring grass.

The chuck wagon was fully loaded, sitting on the ridge of a shallow valley. A river cut thinly toward the ocean in the distance. The banks were lined with a smattering of tall trees, mostly oak. Wildflowers flourished everywhere the soil would allow, mixing in with the healthy grasses, dotting the landscape with deep reds, yellows, and blues. The ground looked like a rainbow had fallen from the sky, the vibrancy of the colors staining everything they touched. The air would have been fragrant and full of promise if not for the presence of the longhorns. As it was, the air smelled of cows, but it was not so stringent, or foul, just not as sweet as the air should be. Even the flies seemed intoxicated, glad for spring and the opportunities their hosts provided.

The boss was a tall, willowy man with grizzled gray hair and a smooth, serious face. His eyes were deep blue, nearly akin to the color of the sky, and looked like they could be hard and mean if they had to be, but preferred not to. He stood stiffly, looking out over the field of longhorns, finishing off the morning's cup of coffee.

“Don Bowman?” Josiah asked, as he walked up to the man.

“That's me. Who's asking?” The trail boss had a nononsense way about him, not accustomed to being called on when he was deep in thought, probably plotting the journey in his head as he looked to the north.

Josiah glanced around to see if there were any other men within earshot. No one was except for Scrap, who had followed after him and stood impatiently on his heels. “I'm Josiah Wolfe. This here's Scrap Elliot. We're Rangers. Marshal Harlan suggested we might ride along with you to Goliad. Captain Leander McNelly and a company of Rangers are heading down to quell the violence Cortina started in Corpus, and we're to meet up with him there.”

Bowman squinted his eyes, took in Josiah from head to toe. “Rangers you say? Both of you?”

“That's right,” Josiah answered, curious as Bowman looked past him to size up Scrap, too.

Bowman nodded his head. “You got any experience ridin' with a cattle drive, there, Ranger Wolfe?”

Josiah looked down to the ground, then back up quickly, staring the boss in the eye. “Can't say I do, no sir. Never had the opportunity, or desire, until now.”

Scrap stepped up next to Josiah. “I wrangled with an outfit that took me from Fort Worth to Kansas City a few years back before I joined up with the Rangers, Mr. Bowman. I sure would be glad to help out with the remuda. I'm a fair hand with horses, and I can work with just about any man.”

“Elliot here is a fine horseman, that's true,” Josiah interjected.

“I'll be the judge of that,” Bowman said coldly.

Scrap smiled, obviously glad to accept the challenge to prove himself. “I suppose you will. You won't be disappointed, I'll guarantee you that.”

“I got all the thirty-dollar men I can afford,” Bowman said. “And we've signed on every man we need. You're a day late.”

“We're not looking for a wage,” Josiah said.

Scrap shot him a disdainful look but said nothing. He stepped back, out of range of Josiah and Bowman.

“You got trouble followin' you?” Bowman asked.

“Maybe,” Josiah answered. “Elliot and I were both sent to Corpus on the order of the adjunct general, William Steele, and Captain McNelly to act as spies. Neither of us had any previous experience and most likely failed more than we succeeded. The attack on Corpus by Cortina's men was a complete surprise to us. We may have made our fair share of enemies before leaving town.”

“Speak for yourself, Wolfe,” Scrap said.

“I can't risk the herd for a favor to the marshal of Ingleside. I ain't got no orders.” Bowman tossed what coffee remained in his cup to the ground, then spit right behind it.

“I'm not going to beg you, Mr. Bowman,” Josiah said. “But there may be some men on your crew who are fleeing Corpus with blood on their hands.”

“I don't hire outlaws.”

“Didn't say you do—or have. Just that it might become necessary for a Ranger or two to show themselves if any trouble comes along,” Josiah said.

Don Bowman drew a deep breath and furrowed his brow, glaring at Josiah. “I run a tight outfit, Wolfe. No drinkin', no gamblin', and no gallyboutin' while we're on the trail. What a man does in town is his own business as long as he don't bring it with him. If the need comes, I can handle any pup in this company on my own, you understand me, mister?”

“I understand,” Josiah answered.

“All right then, I suppose you both can ride along. Elliot, you say you got horse skills?”

“Most folks call me Scrap, Mr. Bowman, but yes, sir, I surely do. Been on a horse before I could stand on my own two feet.”

“I ain't gonna call you anything, if I don't have to. You ride up north about a quarter mile. Fella by the name of Peewee Wilson is gatherin' the rides. You tell him I said to try you out. Peewee's got a bad eye and he's as tall as a mountain. You'll know him when you see him. I wouldn't go boasting on about how good with horses you are to him. Just let him see for himself. He likes you, you'll ride with him to Goliad. He don't, come back here, and you'll work drag, you understand?”

Scrap smiled broadly again and started to push past Josiah, obviously anxious to get to work. Josiah put his arm out and stopped Scrap cold.

“What in tarnation now?” Scrap bellowed.

“No man on this trail needs to know we're Rangers. You give them your spy name, you understand?” Josiah said.

“Hank Sutton?” Scrap said. “I thought I was rid of that nonsense.”

“Not until we meet up with McNelly in Goliad, you understand?”

There was no mistaking the order, the hard-as-steel tone in Josiah's voice. He turned his attention to Bowman. “I go by Zeb Teter. I'd appreciate it if you played along. We're still duty-bound to our original orders until we rejoin the company of Rangers. I don't mind giving you some free labor, but we're still on a mission. As you understand.”

“I don't give a damn what you call yourselves as long as you don't cause me any grief. Now, get on there, Elliot, ur, I mean, Hank Sutton, or whatever your name is. Peewee could use the help you're so eager to offer, sooner rather than later.”

Scrap nodded, glared at Josiah, then broke into a happy run to Missy, who was waiting about ten yards away.

“There's some fire in that boy's belly, that's for sure,” Bowman said.

“Too much sometimes. But I've been glad for Elliot's company over the last few months. He's a fine shot. Just needs to calm down a bit,” Josiah said, watching Scrap disappear into a cloud of dust over the ridge.

The cows groaned and their horns clattered in the distance, a foreign sound to Josiah's ears. It sounded like a thousand sticks battling against one another, except there was no anger in the air, no smell of blood, or fear, just shit and the smell of a thousand animals all packed into one small place. It would all take some getting used to.

“What do you have in mind for me, Bowman?” Josiah asked.

“Since you ain't got any experience with driving cattle, I'll have you ride the flank, and keep close here to the wagon. If the cookie needs you, you can help him with simple chores. But mostly, I just need you to lay low and keep yourself out of trouble until we reach Goliad. It'll take a long time just to get every man settled into the ride.”

“I know less about food than I do about cattle,” Josiah said, surprised at the assignment.

“My guess is you won't touch a bite of food unless it's on your spoon. Be a pot washer for a day or two, that'll be good for you, I suspect, if flank is too much for you to keep up with.”

Josiah started to protest, then swallowed his words and just nodded. The cookie came walking around the corner of the chuck wagon and came to a full stop. Josiah knew the man. It was Leathers, the ex–Trappist monk he'd fought alongside at the saloon.

Don Bowman disappeared, off to a duty of his own, riding a sorrel mare that seemed to suit the man in stature and attitude; it was lean, proud, and sure-footed.

Leathers stood staring at Josiah. “Now, what exactly am I supposed to do with you, Zeb Teter?”

For some reason Josiah was not surprised to see Leathers. “Bowman said I was to ride flank.”

“A greenhorn, aye?” Leathers's thin, hard, face was difficult to read. Josiah didn't know if the man was poking fun at him or if he was trying to antagonize him further. Their encounter at the bar had been a little contentious, but then again, Josiah knew he had been drinking whiskey, had been set on drowning his sorrows about Maria Villareal and Juan Carlos in a bottle, so the sour attitude might well have been all his own. For all he knew, Leathers was a good man, nothing more than a cook on a cattle drive, making a life for himself—just like Josiah. Still, there was something unsettling about the man, and Josiah didn't immediately trust him or put aside the contention he'd felt when he met him.