owls remained silent. Gone. Or watching, from atop the trees, the madness of men.
Josiah had been certain it would be impossible to survive another day after that. But he had.
The win at Antietam was a fragile but certain victory for the Union. In the days that followed, the blood that was left behind on the fields of Sharpsburg and Antietam gave Lincoln a window to fight back with his words and ideas. He released an early version of the
It was a blow from which the South would never fully recover.
There had been no way for Josiah to know, of course, that he was fighting a losing battle on that bloody day—just as there was no way now to know the outcome of his current, dire circumstance in an unknown barn in Comanche, Texas, nearly twenty years later.
This day, and Antietam, all felt familiar. Too familiar, and that was the troubling part. Coupled with his own physical weakness, he felt like he had given every ounce of his being to win a futile war, and it still was not enough.
Josiah held his breath, tried not to move, steadied the barrel of the Spencer the best he could.
A mouse ran over his right hand, flittering across his skin in fear, fleeing as quickly as it could.
The rodent didn’t startle him. He was aware of its presence, as well as the village of them that lived in the hay mound, so he was not surprised when they decided to run. He just hoped they would go one at a time, scurry from the light deeper into the hay instead of outward, drawing attention to his position.
He remained still, unfazed, as the light inside the barn grew brighter.
The smell of coal oil filled interior, the threat of fire a concern to animal and man alike, but more so to Josiah. He had seen the aftermath of a fire in a barn, seen the charred human bones of someone left behind, and now that fate could very well be his.
Odd thing was, he was certain he heard the horses outside fade into the distance. They had not stopped scouting, searching for him, so he was a little confused—but nonetheless aware of the threat coming his way.
Silence filled the barn.
Sweat dripped from the tip of Josiah’s nose to the top of his lip. He tasted his own salt, feared for his own life, and pressed his finger tighter on the trigger—just as the light pulled back and disappeared.
The barn went black.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Josiah slowly stirred then started awake, suddenly aware of the passage of time.
The riders had gone on, and the torch had vanished. Though Josiah was not sure if he had lost consciousness before or after the torch had come and gone.
It didn’t matter; at the moment, he seemed to be safe. Not to mention alive and armed, still equipped with the Spencer and five cartridges to protect himself with. That was more currency than he had had since first catching the trail of Big Shirt—which now seemed as much a trick as the attack on Lost Valley by Lone Wolf in July. Still, he didn’t know for sure that he, Scrap, and Red had been lured to the cropping of rocks by Big Shirt and Little Shirt. Or if the Indians’ true cause all along had been to take Josiah hostage.
It was the first time that he’d had the strength and clarity of thought to question the events of the day.
Not that he was healed. But the bleeding in his leg had stopped, congealed as he slept. It was apparently just a flesh wound, though at the time the bullet hit him, it had felt like a full-on shot. He couldn’t be sure that he was right now, and he would have to wait until daylight to make sure, but he thought he knew the difference between a graze and a direct hit, and he was almost certain that he didn’t have lead lodged in the muscle or next to the bone.
He was hungry, thirsty, and weak, but the fear of death—at least impending death and doom—seemed to have passed.
Josiah was reasonably certain at that moment that he was going to live to see another day. Then the questions crept back into his mind as he lay there, still afraid to move in the solid darkness, unsure of where he was or what was next.
If it had been Big and Little Shirt’s intention, or mission, to capture him because he had a reward on his head—most likely posted and sworn out by Liam O’Reilly—then why did the Comanche shoot Red Overmeyer? Kill him like a trapped animal, tied to the tree . . . and leave Scrap there alive?
At least that was the way it had appeared.
The last time Josiah had seen Scrap, the boy’s eyes were filled with fright, and he was tied to the tree, struggling to escape with Red behind him, his head half blown off.
Not much of it made any sense at the moment to Josiah.
Suddenly he was an outlaw being pursued by an outlaw—for what cause? A price on his head for what crime? He was a Texas Ranger, damn it, not some low-life gunslinger who killed for the pleasure or power of it.
How did a simple expedition to scout out Indian cattle rustlers turn into a trail of confusion, leading to the death of a good, solid Ranger like Red Overmeyer?
Josiah exhaled. Just thinking about all of it made him weak, and he decided that there was no place to go at the moment. What he needed most was more rest. Hopefully, there would be plenty of time to get his answers once the sun broke over the horizon.
The first question: Was Scrap Elliot still alive?
If he could get free of the town of Comanche, then Josiah knew he had no choice but to head straight back to that tree and see what had become of Scrap—and Red.
CHAPTER 8
Nobody likes to wake up with a gun barrel firmly lodged against their lips.
“You move one muscle, mister, and I’ll blow your fool head off.”
Josiah flickered his eyes open.
His vision was blurry, and he was weak—but not stupid. He restrained himself. He was not going to move an inch, but instead, he would do as he was told, and not search out the Spencer that had fallen from his grip sometime during the night. Josiah still wasn’t sure if he was awake or in the midst of one of his common nightmares.
“What the hell are you doin’ in my barn?”
Josiah started to answer the question, but stopped when the barrel of the rifle at his lips was pushed just a little harder. This person meant business. Josiah was fully awake now.
“Don’t answer that. I know why you’re here. You’re that Ranger that the sheriff’s lookin’ for, ain’t you?”
Josiah didn’t move, just blinked his eyes, clearing his vision. He saw his accuser clearly now, at the other end of the rifle, a .50 carbine, and was a little surprised.
The gun was held by a girl, well not quite a girl, a young woman, maybe twenty years old.
Tangled brown hair fell over her shoulders, and she was dressed in a blue cotton dress that matched the color of her eyes, topped with an oversized woolen, four-button man’s sack coat. The color of the coat had nearly bled out of it, and it was as gray as the coming winter sky. The girl’s eyes were cold, hard as the metal of the rifle in her hands, not showing fear but outright anger and indignation.
The dress would have been loose-fitting at any time, but now she looked to be in the late stages of pregnancy. Her belly was full and rounded, dropped low at the waist, protruding like she’d stuffed two full-grown pumpkins up under the dress. Her breasts protruded, full and ripe obviously, the cleavage deep, but thankfully hidden mostly by the pull of the simple sack coat. Her feet were bare and dirty.
“Well? You are, ain’t you? You’re that Ranger everybody’s lookin’ for?” the girl demanded, pulling the rifle away from Josiah’s dry mouth about an inch. “You best answer me, mister. I’m in a foul mood the way it is, lackin’ sleep like I am.”
