mountain. He stopped and took a deep breath, then looked over his shoulder and nodded to Scrap, indicating that they were on the right trail.
O’Reilly’s camp was just ahead, he was certain of it.
Rounds chambered, guns at the ready, Josiah’s heart remained steady. He held no fear, did not sweat . . . until he heard the pull of a hammer and a familiar Irish voice.
“Move one more step, Wolfe, and I’ll blow your head clean off.”
CHAPTER 42
Everything stopped. There was no wind, no animal sounds, nothing but silence and a beating heart. O’Reilly’s voice came from directly in front of Josiah, but he couldn’t see a thing, not a shadow, not an outline of a man, nothing but the black of night.
“You, too, there, Elliot. Both of you drop your guns to the ground,” O’Reilly yelled out. He was close, a couple of feet away, between a tall boulder and the campfire, hidden so well it was almost like he was invisible.
Josiah knew there were two men, but didn’t know who the other man was or where he was. Could be with O’Reilly or behind them. It didn’t matter. All Josiah knew was he wasn’t about to be captured again, was not going to leave his fate in luck’s hand, or the Irishman’s either, for that matter.
“I’m not foolin’ around with either of you,” O’Reilly said.
“You might as well shoot me now, O’Reilly. If I’m a dead man, I’d just as soon get it over with,” Josiah answered. He felt around with his boot and touched a small rock. He kicked it toward O’Reilly’s voice, hoping to create a distraction, bouncing it off a boulder, then dropping his body to the ground as quickly and in as swift a motion as he could. He hoped Scrap had the sense to do the same thing, or something else to save himself.
O’Reilly fired into the darkness, the flash exposing his position, missing Josiah by several feet.
The shot had come from a steep buttress of rock. O’Reilly must have been hiding about ten feet up, on a slight ridge, just off the path Josiah and Scrap were sneaking along, toward the campfire. The shot ricocheted off a tight collection of rocks, sending sparks sizzling in every direction.
Josiah rolled on the ground, came to a stop in a prone position against a boulder, and fired back in O’Reilly’s direction.
The first shot had been directed at Josiah, giving Scrap time to dive into the darkness. Josiah heard him move, saw his silhouette disappearing, was tempted to ask if he was all right, but didn’t have time—and didn’t want to give away his position.
“You’re a dead man, Wolfe,” O’Reilly shouted.
Josiah answered back with a quick blast of three shots. One hit the buttress on the edge, sparking slightly. The other two shots disappeared into the darkness.
“I’m not dead yet,” Josiah said.
A flurry of shots erupted from behind Josiah, the percussion loud and deafening.
“Neither am I,” Scrap yelled out.
For a moment, no one said anything. A cloud of gun smoke wafted past Josiah, and he sighed silently, relieved and glad that Scrap was all right.
Josiah knew there was another man out there somewhere, knew he was still exposed, but hoped like hell Scrap had his back covered. There didn’t seem to be a way to ease closer to O’Reilly without putting himself more out in the open.
“You should have stayed in Austin, Wolfe,” O’Reilly said, the lilt in his voice measured with anger.
Josiah fired a round. Hit the rock. “I’d rather be where I am right now.”
“If you were a better shot, I would have never made it out of Comanche alive.”
“I got what mattered. I’m sure that bank’s got a bounty out on your head and a rope waiting for you for killing the sheriff.”
“Wasn’t much of a sheriff, was he?”
“Should have sent you packing with that kin of Hardin’s.”
“More to be made runnin’ a town than robbin’ a bank, Wolfe. That’s always the last bit of business before movin’ on. You ought to know that.”
“You’re stopped now. And you haven’t reached Cortina yet. One of us isn’t getting out of here alive. That’s all I care about.”
O’Reilly shot back, the repercussion echoing off into the night, the bullet about a foot off from the imaginary target on the center of Josiah’s forehead. “You don’t know what I’ve reached, Wolfe.”
Scrap jumped up, pumped a full load of six shots in O’Reilly’s direction. “You’ve reached the end of the road. That’s what you’ve reached!”
O’Reilly fired back, and the shadow that was Scrap jumped back into the darkness just in time.
A second later, a pebble pinged Josiah in the leg. He looked over his shoulder. He could barely see Scrap, who was motioning his head in the opposite direction, then pointing his finger up. He was obviously willing to take a chance and wanted to circle around to the other side of the rock, find a way at O’Reilly that the outlaw wasn’t expecting. Josiah nodded his head yes.
“That boy’s gonna be your death, Wolfe. You need to find a better riding partner.”
“I’m tired of your threats, O’Reilly. The bounty on my head is up, for what good it did you.”
“I gave you too much credit, Wolfe.”
“Did you have a deal with Red Overmeyer? Was he a traitor?”
“Overmeyer? That Indian-lovin’ scout?” O’Reilly laughed, then took another shot at Josiah. “I don’t know anything about a deal. You’ll have to ask those Comanche about that.”
“One of them is dead, and the other is on display in the Austin Opera House, last I heard.”
Josiah didn’t know whether to believe O’Reilly or not about Overmeyer. He just wanted to keep the man talking, distract him, to give Scrap a chance to find his way to a better shot.
“If you’ve already made a deal with Cortina, what are you doing out here, heading west?” Josiah asked.
“You ask a lot of fool questions, Wolfe. Charlie Langdon should have killed you when he had the chance.”
“Is that what this is about? Langdon? He met the rope. You can expect the same thing.”
“Ain’t never gonna happen. But I owe a mite of respect to ole Charlie.”
“Respect or revenge?”
“Call it what you want.”
They exchanged another volley of gunshots, both missing, at least as far as Josiah knew. He pulled back against the rock and reloaded the Colt Frontier, then looked to the sky overhead and took a deep breath. There was no way to know where Scrap was or if there was even a way to get close enough to O’Reilly for a decent shot, but Scrap would find it if there was.
Back up, ready to take another shot, Josiah took a breath, tried to sight in anything out of the ordinary, tried to see a shot that would put an end to O’Reilly and free Josiah of any worry about that threat to his life in Austin.
There was nothing to see, no hope of getting the shot, until he heard another voice—the second man riding with O’Reilly, he presumed—yell out and say, “Give it up, O’Reilly, they’ve got you cornered.”
Josiah knew the voice. It was Pete Feders’s.
Scrap walked into the firelight , pushing Liam O’Reilly in the back of the head with his rifle. Liam
Pete Feders stood on the opposite side of the dwindling fire, unwrapping a heavy rope with his right hand. “Good thing you boys came along when you did, or I would have been a dead man.”
O’Reilly spit. “You are a dead man, Feders. He’s your traitor, Wolfe. Not that damned scout.”
Josiah was standing next to Feders, uncertain about trusting the man.
