“Can’t you speak English like a real Texan, Lyle?”
Lyle nodded, then looked away.
Josiah quickly intervened before Scrap could continue on. “Not here, Elliot.”
Scrap started to say something, but he obviously thought better of it and turned around, his back to Josiah and Lyle, facing the crowd.
Josiah pulled Lyle next to him and patted him on top of the head. Lyle smiled upward at Josiah, then stuck his tongue out at Scrap.
CHAPTER 27
B. D. Donley looked a lot taller than he really was sitting on top of his unkempt black stallion. He was a head shorter than Josiah and had thick black hair that was usually coated too heavily with pomade. His voice was scratchy and weak, his face pocked and bumpy like a dry creek bed, and his eyes were nearly black, too, always shifting around at one thing or another. Josiah hadn’t trusted the man from the first day they’d met, and that sentiment still held true.
Donley brought the other two Rangers to a stop upon recognition of Josiah and Scrap. Karl Larson and Slim James were less known to Josiah, since his time with the Battalion had been varied from the start, but both men immediately offered a quick hello to Scrap Elliot.
“Hey there, boys,” Scrap said. “Looks like the huntin’ was good.”
Karl Larson was a big boulder of a man, his arms as big as anvils and his chest barrel-shaped. His clothes were covered with trail dust; even his bushy blond mustache looked to have bits of dirt in it. “Was a good ting you wasn’t with us, there, Scrap,” Larson said, easing back in his saddle, firing a load of tobacco spit back at Big Shirt.
“Why’s that?” Scrap asked.
Slim James chimed in before Larson could answer. “’Cause you and Donley would’ve had a brawl about whether to bring the Comanch back alive.” Slim was true to his name, tall and lanky, arms about as thick as broomsticks, but like Scrap, he had a gift with horses. The two of them raced whenever the opportunity to play showed itself back at the Ranger camp.
“Ain’t no doubt about that,” Scrap said.
Big Shirt fell to his knees, offering nothing but a sigh of exhaustion and a muted groan of pain.
“Good to see you made it back to Austin, Wolfe,” Donley said, dancing his horse forward a bit, tossing a glare over his shoulder that could only mean one thing: for the two Rangers to shut their mouths. His teeth were crooked and tobacco brown. “I surely thought them folks from Comanche would track you down and hang you with your toes to the ground like they did John Wesley Hardin’s kin.”
Josiah could feel every eye of Austin burning into his neck. The crowd across the way was just as thick as the one he’d pushed through to get to the street. It was amazing how silent the crowd was—they were listening to every word spoken. Somewhere, a crow cawed in the distance.
“I did nothing wrong,” Josiah said. His voice was even and his gaze hard. He had no desire to look away from Donley’s snickering grin and accusatory glare. He would just as soon knock the man from his horse, but he restrained himself for his own sake, and Lyle’s.
“Killed a deputy from what I understand. You’ll have to account for that, Wolfe.”
“I’m aware of my deeds, Donley, and their cause. Captain Feders saw fit to send me back to Austin, and you out to capture or kill Liam O’Reilly. Tell me the Irishman’s dead and buried and we haven’t much more to talk about.”
Donley shook his head no. “I have only the Comanch here to show for my troubles—and to prove that the savages still intend to bestow fear upon us all. Do you hear that, fine citizens?” he yelled, doffing his hat in a wave, raising his butt up off the saddle, nearly standing up. “Let loose, this savage will slit your throat, steal your scalp, and eat your kidneys for dinner.” He licked his lips.
The crowd recoiled.
Donley was enjoying himself, and Josiah was certain that the Ranger was up to something—something no good, since he was making such a show of Big Shirt’s presence.
There was an audible gasp from the crowd. A symphony of feet rustled backwards behind Josiah.
“That’s enough, Donley. You’ve riled these fine people enough. What is your intention?” Josiah asked.
“I aim to speak directly to Governor Coke himself.”
“On Feders’s orders, or your own accord?”
“On accord of all the Rangers,” Donley said, puffing his chest.
Josiah held his doubt tight in his throat, only allowing it to escape as a deep baritone groan. He was sure there was more to the man’s ploy than making a case for all of the Rangers to retain their status and pay, but he had no choice but to take the man’s word and let things play out as they would.
“Come with us, and see for yourself, Wolfe. Or are you too busy playing wet nurse instead of acting like a Ranger?”
Josiah’s doubt fell away as anger flashed up his spine. “Watch yourself, man.”
Donley smirked then said, “Come on, fellas, the governor’s waiting. He surely knows we’re coming by now.”
Both Larson and James nodded. They seemed fully in line with Donley’s intent, sitting up straight in their saddles, ready to follow.
They started to move away slowly, Donley finally breaking eye contact with Josiah.
Josiah stepped back, his own intention clear: that he wasn’t going to join in on Donley’s game. There was no way Josiah was going to bust into the capitol with a Comanche in tow. He had enough trouble to consider.
Larson slowed and spoke directly to Scrap. “What about you, Elliot? Comin’ along?”
Scrap glanced over at Josiah, trying to show no emotion one way or the other. “Nah, I think I’ll hang back.”
“Suit yourself, but you’ll be missin’ a spectacle,” Larson said.
“I’ve had my fair share of those, thanks,” Scrap answered.
Josiah was relieved but said nothing. He would wait until the trio was out of earshot to tell Scrap he thought he’d made a wise decision.
The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Josiah’s stomach did not fade as Donley pulled ahead. He still had to face Big Shirt.
Big Shirt had heaved himself up off his knees once he realized that Donley was on the move again. It looked like the Indian had spent plenty of time facedown in the dirt as it was.
“I’ll kill you, Josiah Wolfe,” Big Shirt scowled, “if it’s the last thing I do.”
Josiah stood his ground, let his eyes and stance say everything that needed to be said:
Lyle tucked himself behind Josiah’s legs, hanging on tightly to his pants. Now was not the time to discourage fear, and Josiah knew it.
After Big Shirt passed, and Josiah breathed a sigh of relief, and was about to ease back into the crowd, then B. D. Donley brought the black stallion to a quick stop. He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Wolfe, I have something that belongs to you.” He reached down to a scabbard and pulled a familiar Winchester ’73 out of it. “This is yours, if I ain’t mistaken.”
Josiah nodded. “It is.” He started for Donley, but stopped once he realized that Lyle was still attached to his leg. “You go stand with Mr. Scrap while I go get my rifle.”
“Do I have to?” Lyle asked.
“Yes.” The farther away from Big Shirt he kept his son, the better it was for them all.
Lyle let go of Josiah’s leg. “All right.”
“What do you say?”
