The day had yet to fully grab hold, but it was going to be a warm one, especially for this time of year. It was like they had stumbled into a desert, devoid of any life at all.
He peered over the rock again, and saw no movement along the creek.
“Anything?” Red asked.
“Nothing.”
“I’m worried about that Elliot now.”
“Me, too.”
“Should I go after him? Take a look and see if I got lucky and kilt that there scout?”
“Yes. Go.”
Red pulled himself out of the cranny he’d positioned himself in and disappeared behind the same rock Scrap had.
It only took a second for the silence to return. Now it belonged entirely to Josiah. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart.
He looked over the rock again, angling the barrel of the Winchester toward the creek.
Unconsciously, he balanced the barrel with his left hand, eased his finger onto the trigger, and let his right hand fall so it was touching the butt of his pistol, a singleaction Colt .45-caliber, most often called by him, and other Rangers, the Peacemaker. Settling his arm as he had had allowed the burning sensation around his wound to fade away, but not fully disappear.
This time, he saw movement, but it was only a snake, a small rattler slithering along the white, sandy bank of the dry creek. It was hunting quietly, searching for anything that moved. It was a futile quest as far as Josiah could tell.
He was starting to believe Red had gotten lucky with the shot . . . until he sensed a bit of movement behind him.
“Don’t move,” a strong male voice said forcefully, but almost in a hush. “Or I’ll shoot you dead right here. Let the guns go—but don’t turn around until I tell you. Understand?”
Josiah nodded. He could not help but catch sight of his oppressor out of the corner of his right eye as he did as he was told. It was a Comanche. The same scout he’d thought—had hoped—Red had killed. There was a rifle in the Indian’s steady hand, pointed directly at Josiah’s head.
There was no way he could spin and shoot, just kill the Indian outright. There was no room, and he knew better than anyone that he was not fast enough to pull off such a feat.
First, Josiah pulled the Winchester down over the rock and let it fall out of his grasp. The rifle kicked up a cloud of dust at Josiah’s feet, but not enough to distract the Indian, nor enough to create an opportunity. Josiah’s options were fading fast.
He was curious, though, why the Comanche didn’t just shoot him. Most would have. Normally in this circumstance he’d already be a dead man, if everything were as it seemed.
“Now the pistol,” the Indian said.
The scout’s English was halting and had the regular start-stop that accompanied many of the Indian speech patterns Josiah had heard in the area. Probably taught by Christian missionaries in an attempt to civilize them. No chance of that, Josiah thought, not at the moment, not with a war taking place north, up Red River way.
He pulled the Peacemaker slowly out of the holster and eased it to the ground next to the rifle.
“The knife in the belt, too.”
Again, Josiah did as he was told. He had no more weapons, other than his fists and. hopefully, time—time enough for Red and Scrap to return and discover the lone scout and rescue him. For that reason, each of his movements was slow and methodical, not out of fear, but out of hope for an opportunity to strike back at the Comanche.
“Now,” the scout said, “take off your boots and turn around slowly.”
Josiah did as he was told, emptying his boots of dirt, but no weapons as the Comanche had suspected, then faced the Indian for the first time.
There was no recognition. He had never seen the scout, or the other Comanche who stepped out of a shadow behind the rock where Scrap and Red had disappeared, a rifle in his hand, aimed directly at Josiah’s head.
Both men had long black hair, a feather braided into the right side of the taller one. They both wore shirts that looked to be made for an Anglo instead of an Indian; gingham, light blue, with a mosaic of circles and squares. The second Indian’s shirt was faded red, striped instead of dotted with shapes.
Each wore necklaces that draped low from his neck and looked more like breastplates than jewelry, except the necklaces stopped at the top of the gut and were made of wood or a smooth bone, it was hard to tell which, instead of metal. Both men wore long pants and riding boots. These two looked more like outlaws than Comanche rustlers, and for a moment Josiah was confused.
“Hold out your hands,” the original scout, and taller of the two, ordered Josiah.
The second one, who Josiah decided was taking orders and was subservient to the tall scout, rushed forward and quickly bound Josiah’s hands with a heavy rope.
“Don’t think your friends are going to rescue you. It is too late for that, Josiah Wolfe,” the scout said, a slow smile coming to his face. “Put your boots back on.”
The mention of his own name surprised Josiah, but he tried not to show it. “You killed them?”
“Not yet.”
“I didn’t hear a thing. Why should I believe you?”
“Why do you think I care if you believe me or not? I am the one holding the gun at your head,” the scout said.
The short Comanche yanked the rope tight around Josiah’s wrists, finishing off the binding so tightly it nearly cut off the circulation.
It was all he could do to not cry out in pain. “How do you know my name?” Josiah asked through clenched teeth.
“We have a mutual friend.”
“And who would that be?”
“You call him Liam O’Reilly. My people call him the Badger.”
CHAPTER 2
The Comanche pulled Josiah out into the open. Josiah gave up any thought of struggle when he saw that Scrap and Red were tied to opposite sides of a towering elm tree. They were bound tightly with a heavy rope that looked more suited to being used as a hangman’s noose than holding two Texas Rangers captive.
The trunk of the ancient tree was so broad that Josiah doubted that a big man like Red Overmeyer could get his thick arms all the way around it, but it didn’t matter—Red and Scrap were tied to the tree with their backs to it, their stiff and unmoving arms pinned tightly at their sides. They were facing opposite directions, their mouths gagged securely with their own kerchiefs. Rescue or death would be their only escape.
Death was not an option as far as Josiah was concerned. Even less so now that the name Liam O’Reilly had been mentioned. If it were possible for Josiah to feel hate against a man, then there was no question that he felt that emotion for O’Reilly. The redheaded Irishman was as mean as a motherless snake and just as unpredictable, too. Even though Charlie Langdon, the leader of the gang that O’Reilly originally belonged to, was long dead and buried, his power and anger still seemed to haunt Josiah, this time in the form of O’Reilly. It was not that long ago that Langdon and O’Reilly had gone after Josiah’s son, Lyle, and held him as bait to lure Josiah home. Langdon was captured and eventually hanged. O’Reilly escaped, stepping headfirst into the leadership role that Langdon had left vacant.
Now there was cause to be concerned about the past meeting the present.
But the men that were captured and bound were Josiah’s charges, entrusted to him by Pete Feders. Duty would not be clouded by emotion, and Josiah swore silently that he would not let anything happen to his men.
