and snaked southeast, cutting through hundred-foot-high limestone bluffs. The creek was called Cowhouse Creek since there was enough room to shelter a good-sized herd of longhorns from weather or just to rest. Signs of recent passing herds were everywhere. There were hardly any grasses that didn’t show sign of grazing, and the mud was dotted with hoofprints, hard and set, like artwork made of fired clay. But there weren’t any cows moving through at the moment.
There was plenty of vegetation, drawing bird life and smaller critters, like squirrels and rabbits. The ground was a stony clay loam beyond the creek and sandy near the edge, and there were large groves of healthy oaks, walnuts, and other hardwoods to offer a fair amount of shade. The outlying vistas were dotted with mesquite, chaparral, buffalo grasses, hackberry, and thickets of heavy brush. A few mountains—two thousand-foot-tall hills— rose up in the distance as well. The remainder of their travels weren’t going to be flatfooted, so they needed to be prepared.
Both he and Scrap had left Comanche without enough provisions, none as far as Josiah knew, to last the ride back to Austin, so the sight of the creek was a welcome relief since it looked to support a wide variety of wildlife to hunt—unlike the alkaline stretch of the San Saba lowland they had been captured in.
The day had stretched on, and now it was nearly evening. Daylight was fading gray. The perfect clear blue sky was being replaced by a melancholy one, dotted with thin vapors that looked more like veils than clouds. It would be a cooler night, but not cold, and for that, Josiah was glad. The bluffs would protect them from any high winds, but it would also make it difficult to escape any Indian attack if they chose the night for an assault. He still wasn’t convinced that Big Shirt was aligned with any band of Comanche, but it was hard to say. Still, Josiah knew he had to be wary of both Big Shirt and Liam O’Reilly. It was hard to say how far their shadows fell and who they were truly aligned with out in the world, away from town.
Regardless, Josiah was ready to stop and make camp, at least water the horses and find something to eat before nightfall set in.
He urged Lady Mead to catch up with Scrap and Missy, and the mare obliged heartily, showing a burst of speed and dedication that surprised Josiah. He thought the mare must have been ready for a rest. But her spunk almost convinced him to continue on and ride through the night. He was ready to be in familiar territory, if the city of Austin could be called familiar. And Josiah was more than ready to see Lyle and feel the floors of home under his feet, instead of the uncertain ground he’d been walking on in the last few days.
“Let’s make camp,” Josiah yelled out to Scrap as he met him neck to neck.
Scrap glared at Josiah and yelled back, “You left me.”
Josiah shook his head, not sure he’d heard Scrap clearly, but he had known the boy long enough to read the look on his face, the hard set of his jaw, to know that he was angry and petulant—which was the last thing Josiah wanted to deal with at the moment.
He would rather have been riding with a stranger, one of the boys he didn’t know very well, instead of Scrap Elliot. For some reason, Pete Feders seemed to think of the two of them as partners. Josiah certainly didn’t feel that way. At least not at the moment.
“Have it your way.” He yanked the reins and cut Lady Mead to the right, slowing her to an easy stop as gently as he could. He wasn’t about to take his frustration out on a horse like he’d seen some men do.
The creek was about twenty-five yards off to his left, running swiftly. Shadows danced on the water, and there was a slight smell of dead fish in the air. It was like being let loose in the wild after being held captive longer than he ever wanted to be, and he took a deep breath of the acrid air and enjoyed every second of it. Oddly enough, his stomach grumbled with hunger.
Scrap had kept riding, disappearing quickly into the roll of the land and the chaparral in the distance. The ground was too hard for him to kick up a trail of dust, but Josiah was pretty certain that Scrap had slapped Missy on the rump, pushing her to run even faster.
The fire reflected off the creek and played off the bluffs comfortably, like it belonged there . . . bringing light to a completely dark night. There was no sign of the moon, though the stars were pinpricks of sparkling silver for as far as the eye could see. Most of the insects that usually buzzed about at night had done whatever they do for the onset of winter—at least that was what Josiah thought, since it was nearly silent beyond the fire. The silence was a little unsettling. He felt like he was being watched—by more than just critters.
The Spencer was within reach, even though he only had two shots left. He still wore Charlie Webb’s Colt Frontier on his side, so he was more than ready if he should come under attack. Paranoia was not a trait Josiah usually carried with him, but his capture by the Comanche brothers had unsettled him . . . and left him full of questions.
Being taken captive almost felt like it had been part of an elaborate plan—but for that to happen, then Liam O’Reilly and the two brothers would have had to have known he was leaving Austin with only two men, that he was vulnerable for capture. Could someone have told them about the orders he’d been given to go after Comanche cow rustlers and bring them back for questioning? If so, who? And why?
Perhaps the why wasn’t such a difficult question to answer. Liam O’Reilly wanted him dead. And he would obviously go to any length to see that happen. The larger question, the one that was eating at Josiah the most, was who. Who could Liam O’Reilly recruit to get the information he needed from within the battalion of Rangers? Was there a spy within the ranks?
Josiah could hardly believe what he was thinking. He took a deep breath and looked out into the darkness. Something moved. Or at least he thought it had. It could have been a shadow swimming on the limestone, reflecting back off the running creek. Or smoke fading upward, caught by a breeze, then blown back to the edge of darkness. Or it could have been a cougar or a bear, attracted by the smell of what remained of the rabbit roasting next to the fire.
He grabbed up the rifle, eased it into his left hand, and unholstered the six-shooter.
“Don’t go gettin’ all trigger-happy, Wolfe, it’s just me,” Scrap said, appearing out of the black of night, leading Missy closely by the halter. It was clear that she’d thrown a shoe.
Josiah relaxed. “You about got your head shot off.”
Scrap nodded, tying Missy to a nearby oak. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The anger had gone from Scrap’s face. Interpreting Scrap’s feelings didn’t take a medicine man; they were etched clearly on his features. Now he was just tired and about to give out after the long ride.
“Won’t be the last time, either,” Josiah said. He tried not to smile. He wasn’t really that surprised to see Elliot walk into camp, his head down in defeat and resignation.
“Suppose not. Is that rabbit I smell?”
Josiah nodded. “My specialty.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Sometimes, but not now. Come on in.”
“Thanks, Wolfe. I couldn’t go on. Didn’t want to hurt Missy running at night.”
“I understand. We need to talk about some things, anyway,” Josiah said.
“Yeah, I think we do,” Scrap answered as he pulled a tin plate and fork from his saddlebag.
Josiah let his hand slide off the Colt Frontier, but he held on to the rifle. “You wouldn’t have any reason to see me dead, would you, Elliot?”
CHAPTER 17
Scrap didn’t answer until he’d filled his plate with meat and sat down next to the fire, opposite Josiah. “Why in tarnation would I want to see you dead, Wolfe? That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard all day.”
“Just sitting here thinking about everything, and a lot of things don’t add up, that’s all.” Josiah toyed with a
