The Gila Wars (17 page)

CHAPTER 30

Another gunshot quickly followed the first, urging Josiah
to drop to the ground for cover. But he didn't move, he stood gazing into the distance, trying to comprehend what he was looking at.

He'd found himself on a slight rise, allowing him to look down into a dip in the earth, a slight roll just as the land reached out and met the calm ocean. The sun glared off the water like a mirror, hurting his eyes, causing him to look away.

The ground rumbled under his feet, and then another familiar sound met his ears: screaming cattle, scared out of their heads, pushing and bucking to get away from something. Josiah knew what a stampede sounded, and looked, like. He'd been in the midst of one earlier in the year, just outside of Corpus Christi. That stampede had been started with intention, and he wasn't so sure that this one wasn't started the same way.

Each gunshot spooked the cows more, causing them to run up along the coast, some staying huddled together, like a swarm of birds trying to outmaneuver a diving hawk, while others strayed off, running on their own, taking their chances in the grass plains that skirted the sandy beaches.

All of the cattle were running in the opposite direction from Josiah. The gunshots were not for him but for something else. That, at least, was a mild relief. He wasn't sure if he could stand for another fight on his own.

Cortina had employed some
vaqueros
to herd the cows, all longhorns, to the steamer, but they were not doing the shooting, either. They were riding hard, too, trying to outrun a company of oncoming Texas Rangers.

McNelly was easy to identify, leading a hard line of the boys from camp, obviously having found the herd without Josiah's and Pip's help. The captain was doing his best to rescue the cows, to fulfill his duty.

Some of the
vaqueros
were on foot, running full out, trying to escape the onslaught of Rangers. Even with the rumble of the ground and the fearful cries of the longhorns, Josiah flinched as the sound of crackling gunshot met his ears. Small puffs of gray smoke erupted in the air above the rushing horses. A man-made storm that promised both death and destruction. If nature had no conscience, then she was surely outmatched by man's taste for war and battle. The worst tornado or hurricane was no peer to the human desire to conquer and kill.

The man Josiah had killed must have been riding the perimeter, scouting a broad circle around the herd. There were so few men in Cortina's band of rustlers, he must have been the only one to the north of the herd. It was a matter of luck for Josiah. Two men would have been impossible to fight. He would have been a dead man, instead of a man still alive, trying to regain his strength and reestablish his bearings.

He had no choice but to join the company of men now, even though there was more of a fight coming than he was up to, all covered in blood, the taste of death still rattling around in his mouth. Avoiding the battle was out of the question. The company needed him . . . and he knew he needed them. Being out in the open, remaining alone, was dangerous and stupid, and he knew it.

Josiah turned then, any thought of acknowledging the physical pain he felt pushed quickly out of his mind. He needed to find his gun and his horse. And there was the question of Pip's safety. He hoped that the man hadn't met a fate similar to the Mexican's, that he hadn't come across another scout who'd fought him hand-to-hand to the death, too. It was entirely possible that his fellow Ranger had met his maker, that the smell of death that inhabited the inside of Josiah's nose was not only the dead Mexican and the roan mare, but Pip, the hard-riding stranger who never seemed to lose a race.

He turned his back on the Mexican, who was obviously dead, though still bleeding heavily. The man lay in a red pool of his own blood, the invisible and small predators of the insect world already celebrating their luck and bounty. His face was twisted in pain, reflecting the intensity of his last living moment.

Josiah quickly searched the ground for his Peacemaker. He tracked back through the trampled-down grass to where it had flown out of his hand. It was pretty easy to find with the sun beaming down from the sky so brightly. The barrel gleamed on the ground, even in the shadows of the grasses. He rushed to the gun, glad for its presence and the safety it offered him. At least now he could defend himself if the need arose.

The Peacemaker felt good in his hand. He opened the cylinder and reloaded the trusted gun. Then he checked the barrel to make sure it wasn't blocked with dirt or silt. Holstering the gun was not an option, not with a battle breaking less than two hundred yards from him.

Unfortunately, Clipper wasn't the kind of horse that came running to a whistle or call. Josiah had just never trained the Appaloosa to be much like a dog.

Before moving on, Josiah stripped the Mexican of his guns and knife. He threw the cartridge-laden belt over his shoulder, carrying the holstered gun, another Colt .45, under his arm.

He took a deep breath and looked in the opposite direction of the stampede and saw nothing but open land. The way from which he'd come seemed to offer peace and sanctuary—but Josiah knew it would be a mistake to assume anything at the moment. Calling out to Pip didn't make much sense, either. He didn't want to give himself away or bring any undue attention to himself. He wanted to join the fight when he was ready, not bring it to him any sooner than necessary.

Each moment brought Josiah more strength.

He wasn't going to be at full fighting strength anytime soon. There was no question about that, not with the wounds he had suffered in Arroyo, and now in the fight with the Mexican scout—but he still had value, something to offer the company. He could still sit on his horse and shoot, could run down any of the
vaqueros
on foot. He just needed his horse.

Crouching as best he could, he made his way through the knee-high grass back to where the chestnut mare lay dead. It was easy to divine Clipper's path through the grass.

The horse had bolted to the east, almost straight back to where they had come from.

Josiah wondered if Clipper had tried to go back to the camp, to someplace safe. It would have made sense, but the company of Rangers were a good distance away, not in a destination Josiah could arrive at quickly on foot.

Clipper had always been an easy horse to ride in battle, had never been afraid or skittish of loud noises or gunshots, so it made little sense that the Appaloosa had bolted or gone very far. Still, there was no sign of the horse, and that concerned Josiah more than the growing battle behind him.

He ignored the mare and pushed through the grass, staying as close to Clipper's trail as he could.

CHAPTER 31

Josiah was not surprised when he found Pip facedown in
the grass, a single bullet hole in the back of his skull.

The blood had already started to congeal, goo up, but there was no saving the man. He was as dead as the Mexican. Both of them had been on the run, trying to escape, didn't see death coming, though the Mexican surely had to have known as much as Josiah had that every breath taken bordered on being his last. It was hard to say what Pip had thought. Maybe he saw refuge and safety over the rise, hoping like hell that the Mexican was a bad shot when he heard the report of the Colt from behind him. If there was any comfort to be taken, both men had died quickly, each in a fight he'd believed in.

Josiah knew little of Pip—if he had kin who would care about his passing, where he hailed from, or what his hopes for the future were. It was that way with most of the boys in McNelly's company of Rangers. You'd find out more about them after they died than you had when they lived.

It seemed easier for most of the Rangers not to talk about their lives back home. Including Josiah. Talking about his son, Lyle, only made him homesick and regretful. He knew he was missing a good chunk of the boy's life, knew the time away could never be replaced, so focusing on his absence was dangerous. Especially in a moment like the present, when life and death hung in the balance, were nothing more than a lucky shot—or an unlucky one, depending on where you stood.

The thunder and explosion of the battle behind Josiah faded away for just a second. All that remained was an echo and the smell of gunpowder on the breeze.

He leaned down and put his finger on Pip's neck to make sure the man was truly dead. Pip's skin was warm and sweaty, but there was no pulse, no sign of life. Just to make sure, Josiah put his ear to the man's back to see if he could hear a heartbeat. Nothing. Nothing but more smells of death and the wind rolling gently through the grass.

Josiah's senses were nearly numb now. Some smells become solid, unnoticeable, even comfortable, after enough time. But the smell of war never became that way for him. He could taste the gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood. It was an unnatural aroma and taste, foreign, forbidden, but all too familiar.

With a deep sigh, Josiah reached around and gently closed Pip's eyes. If it were possible, he'd try to bury Pip with his horse when everything was said and done. That seemed fitting.

For a second, Josiah thought about loading up with Pip's weapons, too, like he had with the Mexican's. But he didn't want to weigh himself down so severely that he couldn't move easily—or run if he needed to.

When he looked up, a wave of relief flowed through him. He saw Clipper standing about fifteen yards ahead of him. The Appaloosa seemed to glow in the bright sunlight, his white even whiter, and his black even blacker. The contrast of colors was striking, as the horse stood stoically, almost like a statue, staring at Josiah.

The only shadows that reached down from the sky came from the vultures, who were circling higher and higher, floating off to the north, over land instead of the ocean, trying, it looked like, to escape the madness of the men below them. They wouldn't go far, just out of shooting range, but they would rush back in to survey the carnage first thing, just after the dust and smoke settled to the ground.

A slight smile crossed Josiah's face. Seeing the horse was like seeing home after a long journey. There was little comfort and pleasure to be had in what lay ahead for them. Knowing that he would be in his own saddle, on his own horse, buoyed Josiah. If the horse had been dead, had been shot like Pip's, it would have only added to his weakness and his rage. Other than Scrap, Clipper was the closest thing to a friend Josiah had on, or off, the trail, and riding into battle with a trusted steed would give him some much needed strength after what he had just been through.

Josiah walked easily up to Clipper, straining to hear all of the noises that surrounded him, on the ready for any attack, seen or unseen. The horse didn't spook, didn't seem nervous at all. He swished his tail and raised his head up and down as Josiah touched his neck. A quick glance told Josiah that the horse bore no visible wounds. All was well—for the moment.

After unloading the Mexican's gun belt, Josiah climbed up easily into the saddle and settled in. He felt bad about leaving Pip to the insects, vultures, and whatever else wandered by, but he had no choice. Joining the rest of the company mattered the most at the moment.

* * *

From the rise, Josiah could see several miles to the west.
The vista was broad and wide as the land, mostly free of trees of any kind, flattened out to infinity, barely differentiating itself from the sea. The only way to tell the land and water apart was the thin strip of brown sandy beach that separated the two. The grasses covered the land, waving in the breeze, making it look like waves flowing up from the sea, jumping the beach, then continuing on for as far as the eye could see.

The sky was cloudless. Perfect summer blue. The color of cornflowers and calmness. Saltiness and moisture tinged the air with noticeable effect. It was a smell and taste that Josiah had come to enjoy—but not now. The residue of battle had pushed away any memories of pleasurable times on the coast.

A steamer sat a good twenty yards off the coast. Smoke streamed up from the dual stacks slowly. The big wheel on the back sat stationary, and there were no deckhands visible. A captain's tower jutted upward, and where the cabins of a passenger steamer would have normally been, there was only an open space, fenced off like a floating corral. It was still empty. Somehow, the captain had found the herd just in time, stopping Cortina's plan, or putting a dent in it, at the moment.

The frightened cattle were scattered up and down the coastline, for almost as far as Josiah could see. They stuck mostly to the beach, but a good portion of them were rushing through the grass, unconcerned that it was chest-high. From what he knew, the longhorns preferred open spaces. Fear had set them on a course of escape no matter what the resistance.

A few
vaquer
os
tried to wrangle the longhorns back into a herd, but Cortina's men were at the leading end of the frantic stampede. Josiah feared there was another battalion of Mexicans hidden in the distance, waiting for a raid like the one McNelly was conducting. It made sense to Josiah that there would be a backup plan in place. This was a valuable shipment for Cortina. Too valuable not to protect with more than sixteen men. Fewer than that now.

McNelly and the boys were still trailing the rear of the herd of longhorns, the sound of battle overcoming the screaming and mooing cows.

Some of the Mexicans were on foot, and a few of the Rangers had jumped to the ground to join the fight, hand-to-hand.

Josiah sucked in a deep breath and urged Clipper forward, joining the fight without reluctance.

He spied McNelly first and headed straight for the captain, unconcerned now about whether he could be seen or be a target. There was no turning back.

He had his own Peacemaker in his left hand, and the Mexican's gun in his unbound holster, loaded and ready for when the cartridges of his own gun had been used up. Whether he was physically up to the fight was not a question, or a choice to be made. He had no choice. But he hoped to stay on horseback and avoid another ground fight, if that was possible.

He pushed Clipper to a full run. The jostling caused him some pain, but he pushed it away, allowed the call of battle and the adrenaline that came with it to cure his ills—as much as that was possible.

Killing the Mexican had come easy as he looked back on it, using the incident to whet his appetite for what was about to come. Regrets might come later, in the middle of the night, deep in a sleep, if he was lucky enough to survive and come out of the fight whole. It was an assumption that he hoped held true. He couldn't go into a fight thinking he was going to die.

Lieutenant Robinson rode close behind McNelly, his sword drawn, as he bore down on a Mexican who was on the run.

The Mexican was screaming in Spanish, fumbling with a gun, loading up another round of cartridges. Robinson didn't relent, didn't slow down. The man was too close to McNelly. With a hard and calculated thrust, Robinson plunged the blade of the sword forward, catching the man in the kidney. Robinson twisted his wrist fluidly and continued to ride forward, pulling the sword out of the man's side with ease. It was a skilled maneuver, one that Robinson had obviously used before. He had the makings of a captain.

The Mexican screamed out in agony and collapsed to the ground, rolling, still clutching his gun, still screaming words that Josiah didn't understand but knew the meaning of somehow. Dying in battle in any language needed no translation for him.

Josiah's view was suddenly obscured, covered in gun smoke, a black powder fog that pushed any pleasantries of the seaside away. The smoke rose quickly in the air, pushing northeast on the wind rolling in off the waves. For a long moment, it felt precarious to aim at the enemy.

In another second, Josiah heard a familiar yell rise up from behind the Mexican, and watched as Scrap appeared not far behind Robinson, pushing forward as hard as he could, riding his blue roan mare, Missy.

Scrap aimed his rifle, a Spencer repeater, at the Mexican, and happily pulled the trigger. The shot was sure, and caught the man right behind the ear, finishing him off. Scrap yipped and yeehawed, celebrating his shot, making sure the Mexican was dead, and unable to cause the captain, or any of the other Rangers, any harm.

Josiah was glad to see Scrap, and even happier still to know that there were men in the fight who had each other's back. He yelled himself, and then, having caught Scrap's attention, he loosened the reins in his hand, gave Clipper his head, and joined the fight.