CHAPTER 26
Congress Avenue was lined three-deep with people. It was like the Fourth of July had arrived on winter’s doorstep, bringing enough excitement to pull every November-weary resident out of the shops, saloons, and normal routines of the day, to the side of the road to see what was coming. Not that the weather was inclement—the sky was as blue as an exotic jewel—it was just surprising to see life as it generally was come to such a halting stop in the center of the capital city.
The crowd was reasonably quiet, necks craning, whispers passing among friends and strangers, shoes curiously rustling on the boardwalk.
It was such an event that it had even drawn the presence of Blanche Dumont, one of Austin’s most well- known madams, keeper and arbiter of a prosperous house of ill-mannered ladies, pushing her way to the street for a better view of the rumored Comanche. She reminded Josiah of Suzanne del Toro, another former keeper of soiled doves. Blanche had taken over the girls that worked the Paradise Hotel after Suzanne was murdered. Josiah had never returned there—and hoped he would never have to.
Blanche Dumont rarely left the confines of her house, so seeing her out in public was akin to seeing a rattlesnake stand on its tail and dance of its own accord.
The crowd parted in a wide V as Blanche made her way through the crowd. It was hard to miss her since Blanche was wearing white from head to toe; lace, velvet, and feathers adorning her expensive dress and hat. She looked like a swan making its way out to the center of a pond.
Josiah turned his attention to the street, his interest in Blanche Dumont less than most people’s. He didn’t know her, had never had an encounter with her, or with any of her girls. He’d been to the cathouse district all right, but only the one visited mostly by Mexicans—Little Mexico—to a house called
Those memories in Little Mexico were not pleasant, and his curiosity was so piqued by the sudden arrival of a Comanche on the main street in Austin that he could have cared less whether Blanche Dumont was now walking among the very women and men whose lives her business serviced and routinely affected in a negative manner.
Josiah held tightly to Lyle’s hand. The temptation to carry him was great, but the boy was nearly three years old. Regardless of how Josiah felt—fear still coursing through his veins at even the thought of losing Lyle to the wheels of the train—he would not treat his son like a baby.
He had lost sight of Scrap and could barely see over the crowd and into the street.
There was nothing to see at that moment.
He could only hope he knew who the Ranger was, who the Comanche was—he just didn’t know why they would be in Austin, heading down Congress toward the capitol building, drawing everyone out to see.
“Been pulled out here on account of nothin’,” a man standing next to Josiah said. His teeth were yellow, and he smelled of cows and beer.
Josiah didn’t respond, just pushed forward toward the street, making sure Lyle was close to him.
“Why on earth would a Ranger bring a savage heathen into our town?” one woman said to another as Josiah passed by.
It was a quiet statement, almost a whisper. The woman was dressed properly, but plainly—at least in comparison to Blanche Dumont—in a simple dress that fell all the way to the ground and was dark brown in color. She wore no hat, her long hair was piled on top of her head, and the dress bound her so tight at the waist that the woman’s pursed lips made her look like she was going to explode at any moment. From the appearance of things, she had been in the midst of a dress buying excursion when the excitement had pulled her out of the store.
At first, Josiah thought the woman was talking to him.
He was thick into the crowd now, shoulder to shoulder. It wasn’t until another woman answered that he realized he wasn’t being spoken to directly.
The woman responded, “To scare us. That’s what I think. So the Rangers will get more money from the governor.”
Josiah pushed on, dragging Lyle with him, constantly looking down to make sure the boy was all right.
The first woman posed a good question, Josiah thought. One he didn’t know the answer to. Though he didn’t agree with the second woman, he would be interested in seeing what the real reason was for bringing the Indian into Austin.
It took some doing, but Josiah and Lyle made it to the edge of the crowd and could finally see up and down the street.
Scrap Elliot was standing in the middle of the road all by himself, with a big, silly grin on his face. “Hey, Wolfe, looka there, it’s B. D. Donley,” he said, pointing south.
The last time Josiah had seen B. D. Donley, Pete Feders had ordered him and two other Rangers to head north out of Comanche to go after Liam O’Reilly.
The other two Rangers, Karl Larson and Slim James, boys Josiah didn’t know well, were still riding with Donley—the three of them rode abreast, easing down the street like they were leading a parade.
The Indian was bound behind them with a rope leading from each horse and wrapped around his hands, trailing after Donley’s tall black steed, a scrappy-looking stallion.
Much to Josiah’s disappointment, Liam O’Reilly was nowhere to be seen.
The trio of Rangers had obviously failed to capture the Badger but had succeeded in bringing in his Comanche sidekick, the one Josiah had called Big Shirt.
Donley had wanted to scalp Little Shirt in the middle of the street upon his arrival in Comanche, so Josiah was surprised that he had let Big Shirt live upon capture and hadn’t just brought in a scalp and left it at that.
Instead, Ranger Donley had created an event that was likely to draw attention all the way up to the capitol building, if it hadn’t already.
Big Shirt looked weary, stumbling after the horse, trying to keep pace. The knees were torn out of his pants, and blood could be seen on his skin, even from where Josiah stood. Still, the Indian had a scowl on his face, feeding the Anglo fear of Comanche with a full dose, even though it wasn’t needed.
Josiah pulled Lyle as close to him as he could.
The little boy had little or no inherent fear of Indians like Josiah had at his age—and beyond.
Any Indian, Comanche or otherwise, that might have been seen in Austin was either a “friendly” or a half- breed, both anxious to fit in and not be noticed. Hostilities with Indians occurred in the outlying communities, and usually all that made it into the city was the news of an attack, or tall tales, perpetrated by liars and men wanting to make more of themselves than they really were.
When Josiah was a boy, especially in East Texas, the tales of the abduction of Cynthia Ann Parker were fresh, used to control a child and instill fear. Josiah had not told Lyle those stories, or of the time in his own life when he’d had a face-to-face confrontation with a Comanche in the woods, was knocked unconscious, and lost his father’s favored long gun to the savage.
Encouraging a healthy fear in Lyle was not something Josiah had thought about until that very moment, when he locked gazes with Big Shirt, who was staring directly at the boy.
“Get over here,” Josiah said to Scrap, ordering him out of the middle of the street.
“Why?”
“What makes you think you want to be part of this?”
“I’m a Ranger, ain’t I?”
“At the moment,” Josiah said, a familiar unwavering tone in his voice that he used when he was in charge.
Scrap stared at Josiah, then kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “Dang it.” He walked over to Josiah, who was about a foot out from the crowd. Scrap knew the tone by now.
“This is going to be big trouble, mark my word,” Josiah said. “You don’t want to be associated with Donley and his antics.”
Scrap shrugged and turned toward the approaching trio.
Lyle looked up and tugged on Scrap’s sleeve. “
