spot where they were certain they had enough cover to engage the Indian and return him to camp for questioning, as they had been ordered to do by the captain of their company, Pete Feders.
Indians had been rustling cattle, and the Rangers had been charged with bringing a stop to the practice. Good, bad, or otherwise, there didn’t seem much end to the rustling. Josiah hadn’t objected to the assignment, but he did find it curious that Feders wanted a Comanche captured, not killed. The only thing Josiah could figure was the Rangers were getting a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later and Feders had been instructed by the higher-ups, more specifically either Major John B. Jones or Governor Richard Coke himself, to polish their reputation a bit. Didn’t make much sense though, since killing Indians did more for their reputation than anything else.
Whatever the case, Josiah was in no position to question the motives behind the orders. He was in charge, a sergeant to the two men, one a fine weathered Ranger, the other a boy still trying to prove his manhood, as far as Josiah was concerned, as he eyed the Comanche cautiously.
A soft glow of fresh morning light covered the rolling ground leading to the creek, the land dropping slowly in the distance toward the struggling San Saba River. The cool November air was salty, and the creek the Indian lay prone in was a brine spring all used up, still crusty and white with alkali. Nothing could live off that soil, or at least it didn’t make sense for any kind of critter to be able to, other than the mass of flittering insects that hovered inches off the ground.
Even on a cloudless day, there was a depressed, hopeless feel to the place. A few gnarly live oaks and mesquites dotted the hill country landscape, and the Rangers had taken refuge behind a small crop of boulders once Red Overmeyer was certain the Comanche scout had detected them.
The first shot pinged off the straight-edged rock just above Red Overmeyer’s head, echoing in the crisp air, announcing to any creature or man within a few miles that something was amiss.
“Dang, that foul Indian damn near took my ear off.” Red raised his carbine in retaliation but did not immediately pull the trigger, looking to Josiah for permission to start returning fire.
“He’s lookin’ to do more than that,” Scrap Elliot said.
“Careful with your aim, men. Captain Feders was strict with his orders about bringing the raiders to justice. The scout needs to be interrogated.” Josiah focused on the spot where the shot had come from, then glanced over at Scrap Elliot. Scrap had an itchy trigger finger.
“You talk Comanche, Wolfe?” Scrap asked.
“Not my job, that’s Feders’s worry.”
“Justice ought not to be none of the captain’s concern, either,” Scrap said. “He obviously ain’t seen what a Comanche’ll do to an innocent family.”
Scrap’s family had been killed by Comanche, or so he claimed, and his anger still clouded his judgment, at least as far as Josiah was concerned—so he ignored the comment as best he could. There was no use arguing with the boy at the moment—though that’s usually what happened when they were in each other’s company.
“You can take that up with the captain,” Josiah said, raising his own Winchester rifle to aim.
The rifle was a model ’73, not as difficult to handle as the Sharps 50 he used to carry, the rifle Overmeyer still called his own, but still, the rise of his arm brought a quick pain that ran across his chest like a hot piece of iron burning him from the inside out.
The shot of pain was a reminder to him that it hadn’t been so long ago that he’d been stabbed in the left shoulder by a knife in an attack by a Kiowa in Lost Valley. It was July when that skirmish had happened, and the wound was scarred over now, healed thinly, he thought, but a quick reaction still brought pain, telling him the wound wasn’t as healed it appeared to be. It was still tender. Sometimes, he wondered if it would ever be healed at all.
“You all right, there, Wolfe?” Red asked.
Josiah nodded. “Take a shot. Let him know we mean business. Elliot, scoot around to the other side of this rock, and see if there’s a way in behind him. We’ll get him pinned in, then we’ll take him alive like the captain wants.” He hoped that neither Red nor Elliot sensed his own discomfort or his nervousness. This was his first real engagement under fire since he’d been wounded.
“Careful now,” Red warned. “There’ll be more than one. Always is. I ain’t never seen none of them scouts stray too far apart.”
“You said there was only one,” Scrap said.
“Is. For the moment. Like those flies, there, though. Do more damage in a swarm than alone. No such thing as just one Comanche scout. No such thing as just one Comanche, period.”
“Ought to just kill the savage, and be done with it,” Scrap replied.
Josiah nodded forcefully beyond the rock, silently ordering Elliot to get a move on.
“He’ll learn to trust what I say one of these days,” Red Overmeyer said.
Red was an old hand when it came to dealing with Indians. Probably fifty years old, or older, he wore a long beard—faded red, closer to orange with age—that made him look more like a mountain man on a beaver hunt than a Ranger out scouting for a Comanche raiding party. Red’s stained buckskin shirt looked nearly as old as he was, and it barely covered his rounded belly that hung over a leather belt. The shirt looked like it was about to pop apart at any second. A full complement of bullets sat waiting underneath his belly, and a Bowie knife sat firmly on his hip in a hand-tooled leather scabbard that looked old and worn, too, from plenty of use.
It was not uncommon among Rangers to dress in the fashion to which they were comfortable, since there were no required uniforms.
One of the appeals for Josiah of signing up back in May, when the Frontier Battalion came into proper being, was the lack of regimentation. He’d had enough of tight military control in his younger life when he’d served in the First Infantry, the Texas Brigade, in the War Between the States, and he didn’t care for that kind of strictness in his life these days.
Red rarely talked about his encounters with Indians, and Josiah suspected he had lived among the plains Indians at one time or another, married to a Sioux or Shoshone, judging from the minimal tales he told. Red loved Indian women, which was obvious from the way he spoke of them.
Regardless, it was good to have Overmeyer along, his knowledge paramount in assisting the cause of taming the Comanche, even though it was not a battle Josiah had ever chewed at the bit to engage in in the first place— fighting Indians. Staying close to Austin, a day-and-a-half ride away to the north of the capital, was as important to him as remaining a Texas Ranger. At least, until now.
Elliot had not moved from his spot, almost daring Josiah to formally command him to do as he was told.
Josiah nodded again, more firmly, his eyes hard as the metal that had been forged to make the rifle barrel he was holding.
With a loud “Humpf!” Elliot spit on the ground, glared back at Josiah, and did as he was told, carefully edging along the rock, his own Winchester cocked and at the ready.
Josiah thought Scrap Elliot an impetuous sort, never really trustworthy with his intentions or mood, but
The kid, that’s how Josiah thought of the boy, since he was hardly twenty years old, had certain talents that had proven effective in the recent past, and even though Josiah rarely said anything aloud, he admired Scrap’s talents to a high degree. They’d saved his life more than once. His history with Elliot allowed for a certain discounting of youthful enthusiasm. He worried now, though, if he could hold Elliot down, get him to toe the line, and let the plan at hand fall into place. So far, events were occurring without any hint of trouble.
“That boy’s gonna either get us all kilt one of these days,” Red said, “or be a hero in the annals of time. Got the spirit of a warrior, and the brains of a thick piece of granite.”
Josiah chuckled—and at the same time the Comanche fired another shot into the clump of rocks. The chuckle faded quickly, as he and Red both returned fire.
White dust popped up into the air along the dry creek bed. The scout’s rifle went silent almost immediately.
Josiah pulled back and faced Red. “You think he’s hit?”
“Won’t know till I see a dead body. Sneaky bastards, these Comanche are. You know that, though, don’t you, Wolfe?”
Josiah nodded, listened for Scrap, and heard nothing.
There was little wind, no birdsong, not even a hawk lifting higher on the warm currents in the clear blue sky.
