Cougar's Prey (9781101544846) (26 page)

By the time he had climbed back to where they'd left the men, the grayness on the horizon was becoming more visible, casting thin, narrow fingers of soft light into the black night sky. He could see a little better, and heard the first few bird chirps rise into the air in the distance. Spring brought a bounty of colorful birds north into Texas, looking for food and nesting spots. Some of them looked no bigger than a thumb and they were a myriad of colors. Josiah didn't know the names or the song of many of the birds—vireos, warblers, and such—but he couldn't help but notice them.

It was easy for Josiah to forget that it was the season of hope when the first chore of the day was burying two strangers, their throats ruthlessly slit.

The men had not moved, of course, were right where he and Scrap had left them, but the stink of death was starting to set in. The air was foul, and all of the taste buds on Josiah's tongue seemed to stand at attention in protest, and then retreat in full-out surrender as Josiah clamped his mouth shut and drew up his bandana to cover his nose.

Just as he had predicted, the flies had already found the bodies and were celebrating their cause, their way of life, and taking the opportunity to nest and feed as they saw fit.

Josiah found a spot with pliable dirt for the men's final resting place. But first he needed to take a closer look at them in the daylight, pull off anything that might be of use, like a gun or a knife, and see if there was anything that could tell him who these men were and what had happened to them. It was not a task Josiah was looking forward to.

He pulled the blanket off the first man just as the sun broke over the horizon. An insect, something as skinny as a pinky finger and black as the night, skittered away, under a rock. The flies were not afraid of Josiah or the light. He could hear them buzzing all around him and fought the instinct to bat them away. There was no use.

The first man was the skinnier of the two, and there was no sign of a gun belt, which told Josiah that anything of value had already been filched. He had to check anyway, but before he did, he reached up and closed the dead man's eyes. It was hard to call him a man; he was young, probably close to Scrap's age of twenty, if not younger. Another life cut short.

Josiah didn't know if he was one of the rustlers or not, but he guessed that he was.

Glad for the bandana over his nose as the rotting smell grew stronger, Josiah fished around in the man's pocket. The only thing he found was a locket with a picture of two young girls in it, probably around eight or nine years old, obviously sisters. The boy was too young to have a family of his own that age, so they must have been kin. Whatever the relation, the story of who they were and the dead man's identity would most likely remain a mystery that would go unsolved.

Disappointed, Josiah stuck the locket in his pocket and set about digging a grave.

 

 

Scrap showed up about an hour later. Morning was in full swing, and the moos and hollering of the longhorns overtook the sweet spring music supplied by the migrating songbirds.

“I got some johnnycakes cooked up for you and a bit of Arbuckle's left in the coffeepot,” Scrap said.

The cool night had vanished as quickly as the darkness had been overcome by the daylight, bringing with it a quick rise in temperature. Josiah was sweating. “We need to finish up here.”

“You got the first one done and buried already?”

Josiah nodded at the rise in the ground next to the hole he was digging. “They were both stripped clean of anything of use. I've got no idea who they were or what they were up to.”

“Mexcians is what they were. Rustlers, too. Stinkin' thieves who drew us away from a day's work and from bein' a day closer to Goliad.”

“Maybe they were thieves. Maybe not. I doubt we'll ever know.” Josiah tossed a couple more shovelfuls of dirt, then pronounced the hole complete. “You want to drag that one over here?”

“Not really.”

“I've done most all of the dirty work, Elliot, and saved you from most of the stink and the flies.”

“I don't like touchin' dead people.”

“It's not my favorite thing, either, but it needs doing.”

“Oh, all right.” Scrap stomped over to the remaining man, who was nearly twice the size of the one Josiah had already buried. Scrap pulled off the blanket and let out a quick “Boy, howdy!” that probably could've been heard from a mile around. The smell must have ridden up on a quick breeze to Scrap's nose, because he began to choke and gag immediately. “That's the stinkenest thing I ever smelt,” he yelled, burying his face in the crook of his arm.

This was not a situation that Josiah normally found humorous, but he had to turn away from Scrap to keep from laughing out loud.

Without another word, Scrap pulled the man to the grave, blanket and all, flies trailing after him like he was leading a parade.

Josiah helped roll the man completely in the blanket, then they eased him into the hole as gently as they could.

“You gonna say any words?” Scrap asked.

“Like Bible words?”

“Yup. I 'spect it don't matter if they were thieves after all. I guess every man needs a little send-off. Even a Mexican. I guess I ain't the last judge and jury. The Lord is.”

“Don't know any Bible words to say. You?”

Scrap nodded. “My sister's a nun, you know. I think I might know a few if you have no objection?”

“Makes no difference to me.” Josiah shrugged, then began to fill in the hole and cover the man up with dirt.

The other grave was covered with fist-sized rocks and bigger. There was a pile next to the new grave, waiting, that Josiah had found earlier.

A hawk circled overhead, then screamed, calling out playfully, riding the hidden currents in the sky.

Once the second man was buried and all of the rocks placed on top of the grave, both Josiah and Scrap stood back and removed their hats.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” Scrap began, “I will fear no evil . . .”

The sky was clear, blue as a bluebell could be, and offered no hint of rain or storms. It hadn't taken long to round up all of the longhorns, or at least most of them. There were less than a hundred head, but neither Josiah nor Scrap had bothered to count all of the cows. They searched high and low, did the best they could, then headed back east, toward the rest of the herd, with their wayward bovines.

Life would have been easier with a dog or two, and a couple of extra hands, but as it was, it was just the two of them driving the herd, one of them with far more experience than the other.

Josiah silently let Scrap take the lead. Cowboying was the boy's territory, and there was no way Josiah could command the herd, his own horse, and shoulder the responsibility of the success of returning the lost longhorns to Don Bowman with the ease that Scrap could. No use getting Scrap all riled up by challenging his skills or knowledge, making the ride back to the trail, and north to Goliad, any more uncomfortable than it already was going to be. Josiah had ridden with the boy long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut.

Every shadow caught Josiah's attention. He sat stiff in his saddle, expecting a shot to come from some hidden place, either taking him out or Scrap. At the very least, someone set on stampeding the longhorns again, or the minute group coming back to take revenge on them for burying the Mexicans.

Though there were not near as many head to run here, he had never before been in the midst of a stampede of two thousand frightened cows, bulls, and steers, and he hoped never to be again. It was an amazing amount of uncontrolled fear and power. Power with no conscience, or idea of right and wrong. The longhorns had just been spooked, pure and simple, and run willy-nilly to escape their fears.

Disappointed as he was that there had been no sign of Miguel, the instigator of this mess, Josiah was glad to be headed back to the drive. He was still a little nervous, all things considered. Cows were always nervous. One loud noise could send them running, and him, too . . . reaching for his rifle, needlessly or not.

The day progressed, and either the longhorns shared Josiah's desire to return to the larger herd or he was getting accustomed to hooting and hollering and punching a stray when he needed to. Still, there was no need for him to consider a change in the way he earned a living; he'd be no better as a cowboy than he was as a spy.

They didn't stop until they came to a rushing creek that needed to be crossed. The day was falling toward evening, and as much as Josiah had hoped they would reach the drive by the end of the day, it didn't look like that was going to happen.

Scrap rode up next to Josiah, his eyes hard and focused. He barely had any sweat on his brow, while Josiah felt covered with trail dust sticking to his own wet skin.

“We can cross 'em about a mile up, but we'll have to cut through a thin pecan grove, or we can cross 'em here, but I don't like the look of the way that water's a-runnin',” Scrap said.

“Your call. Whatever you think is best.”

“I don't like either option.”

“How far off do you think the drive is?” Josiah asked.

“Hard to say, there's signs of them as far back as a mile or two. Patties are startin' to dry. Could be yesterday's.”

“We need to push on then, squeeze as much daylight as we can?”

Scrap nodded, his attention drawn away from Josiah to the peak of an outcropping. He reached for his Peacemaker. “Looks like we got company.”

Josiah followed Scrap's gaze. All of the longhorns were huddled together in a tight pack about a hundred yards from the creek. Beyond them was the start of a shallow canyon, the vegetation sparse, trying to grow in the spring bounty, and at the top were two men sitting on horses, looking down at the small herd.

The men were in direct sunlight, so it was hard to get a good look at them, hard to tell whether it was Miguel and a partner set on causing more trouble, or Indians, or someone else for that matter.

Josiah followed Scrap's lead, pulled his Peacemaker and chambered a round.

“The one on the right is mine, if it comes to that,” Scrap whispered.

“Fine with me.”

The longhorns ambled about, not distressed in any way or sensing any kind of a threat.

“You recognize them?” Scrap asked.

“Can't get a good enough look at them, but if they're any kind of shots at all, we're well within range.”

“A blind man could hit us from there. Still, we're Anglos, so if they are a part of that minute group that killed the Mexicans, then we ain't what they're lookin' for.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“If they meant us any harm, we'd already know it by now,” Scrap said.

“Maybe. Let's head that off at the pass.” Josiah didn't wait for Scrap. The cowboying duties were over with. He urged Clipper on, tearing away from their spot, whistling and hollering, just like he was herding a stray calf.

Scrap followed closely behind him, and one of the men, the one Scrap had chosen as a target, waved back down to them.

The two men spun their horses around, galloped quickly out of sight, and reappeared moments later, rushing along the trail that led down from the canyon mouth.

Josiah brought Clipper to a full stop upon recognizing one of them. It was Hughes, the cowboy from the drive Josiah had ridden alongside before the stampede sent them chasing longhorns in every direction. He recognized the other man, a lanky cowboy with well-worn chaps and a dusty black Stetson set on his thin head, who he had also seen at the start of the drive.

Both men rushed toward Josiah and Scrap, not showing any weapons, just looks on their faces that spoke of relief.

Josiah holstered his Peacemaker. Scrap stopped Missy next to him but held his gun in his right hand, crossing it over to the left, relaxing a little bit but not completely.

“Looks like someone sent out a crew to look for us,” Scrap said.

“Could be.” Josiah squinted into the sun, checking the top of the outcropping for any more visitors. It was vacant.

Hughes reached them first. He rode a leggy paint mare that cut in and out better than any other horse Josiah had ever seen. There were times when Hughes, who was a thin, well-worn man himself, was at a forty-five degree angle with the earth when the mare was after a calf. Hughes had a serious face, a horseshoe mustache, and eyes that showed concern and agitation all at the same time.

“Glad we found both of you fellas,” he said.

The other man rode up and stopped next to Hughes. They were all facing one another, two abreast. The second man didn't say anything, just nodded. He wore a black Stetson that was covered with trail dust, and carried a new-model Colt with pearl-handled grips that glimmered in the late afternoon sun. The gun was still strapped in, and neither man looked to be any kind of threat.