The Badger's Revenge

Josiah had hand-picked Red and Scrap for the mission to capture Indian rustlers, to gain more information from them, find out their sources.

The situation Josiah now found himself in, being a captive instead of a captor, was not one he had even considered a possibility before leaving Austin on the short trip.

Scrap pushed against the rope and struggled to escape when he saw Josiah being pulled out from the rock maze where they had taken refuge, but he could barely even breathe, much less struggle. The two Comanche didn’t even glance at their captives. Acknowledgment would have surely brought a certain and swift end to both men’s lives.

Josiah felt a push of the rifle against the back of his head, warning him off any sudden, or stupid, movement.

He acted like he didn’t notice the push, and glared at Scrap silently, ordering him to quiet down without saying a word. But Scrap didn’t respond—he needed forceful vocal orders to behave—he just struggled more valiantly, showing as much nerve as he could, bound like a wet pig about to be butchered, knowing full well his life was at stake, certain to cease in seconds, rather than years.

Josiah was almost positive the Indians would slit the two fellow Rangers’ throats and leave them there for the coyotes, vultures, and flies.

He was shocked it hadn’t happened at the outset of their attack, when the Rangers had first been captured. It was a well-thought-out plan that had been perfectly executed by the Comanche.

Any man who thought the Comanche lacked intelligence had never been the mouse in one of their catlike games.

The Comanche weren’t always so generous in sparing a life, which made something about the entire situation seem odd. There was a strange air about the Indians that didn’t feel quite right to Josiah. It was like something was turned on its side, and he was looking at everything before him all wrong, unclearly.

Josiah just kept telling himself to stay vigilant, to watch and wait for that blink of an eye at the wrong turn by one of the Indians, so he could make a move to save himself and, more importantly, to save Scrap and Red.

He knew, though, that if both men did die on that tree, he would spend the rest of his life knowing he had let them down. He would have lost all of the stakes that mattered in the cat-and-mouse game, and surely, his days as a Texas Ranger would come to a quick and unceremonious end. The deaths would be too much for him too bear. Josiah was certain he couldn’t live with himself, constantly blaming himself for two more senseless deaths.

“Liam O’Reilly is not a friend of mine,” Josiah said to neither Comanche in particular, hoping to distract the two from Scrap’s efforts to free himself.

The mention of Liam O’Reilly sent a chill rumbling up and down his spine.

Josiah had always suspected that O’Reilly had headed up Charlie Langdon’s gang once Charlie had dangled lifelessly from the hangman’s noose, and he’d suspected, too, since crossing paths with O’Reilly in Waco during the previous summer, that there was a score to settle, a grudge to be revealed at the point of a knife or in a shower of bullets. Now he knew it to be true. O’Reilly was close, and the promise of the grudge and its consequence was coming to fruition at the hands of two Comanche scouts. “Langdon was your friend,” the tall one said.

“How do you know so much about me? I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is not important to you at the moment. Your life is in my hands. That’s all you need to know.”

“If you say so. You’re right, though. Charlie Langdon was my friend a long time ago, before the war.”

“Your war? The Faraway War between the whites? What a shame you didn’t kill more of your own kind. Our war has been here since the White Disease appeared unbidden one day, and has refused to leave ever since. Your likes have driven us to the four corners of our lands, and yet here we are—holding a gun to the back of your head. Some wars never end. Your personal war with Charlie Langdon still rages, as does my war with the foulness of your white breath on the land my grandfathers walked on.”

“Yes,” Josiah said, “me with a gun to the back of my head. Charlie Langdon betrayed me more than once, and he continues to reach from beyond the grave to pursue his quest to see me done in. He was my deputy when I was marshal of Seerville and he abused the power of the badge. He still thought he was at war, that there were no rules that applied to him. Once he stepped foot into the clothes of a murderer and thief, they fit him like a glove. I’m glad he’s dead, but obviously I’m not free of him yet.”

“You could all be dead, but yet we stand here talking,” the Comanche said.

“No need to do these fellas any harm,” Josiah answered, dodging the reality of the truth of the Indian’s statement. “I’m the sergeant. They have no quarrel with you.”

“They are Rangers, and they are white. That is enough of a reason to kill them. The young one would shoot me in a second, given the chance.”

Josiah silently acknowledged this was true. The Indian wasn’t stupid.

They stopped then, about ten yards past the tree.

Both Comanche exchanged a set of glances that were surely prearranged and meant something to each but nothing to Josiah.

There was no evidence of a greater plan that he could see, but Josiah’s mouth went completely dry. It felt like the saltiness that hovered over the brine creek was caked on his tongue.

“I will order them not to shoot,” Josiah said.

The Comanche laughed, then drew his eyes and mouth tight. “There’s enough innocent Comanche blood in this ground for us to hate them until the moon falls from the sky for the last time.”

“You have no say in that matter, Ranger Wolfe.” The short one finally spoke. The one Josiah had decided to call Little Shirt since they were not going to tell him their names.

Little Shirt’s voice was gravelly and held a strong, nononsense tone—a direct contradiction to his size. Maybe Josiah had been wrong, he thought. Maybe Little Shirt was in charge. Not that it mattered. He, too, would kill both Indians at the first chance to be free of the situation he found himself in.

Killing didn’t come easy to him like it did some men, but he would fight to the death, there was no question about that.

“O’Reilly has nothing against them,” Josiah said. He wanted to keep the Comanche talking as long as possible. It seemed to be working so far.

“You think you know what the Badger holds as currency to kill a man, Ranger? If a man has no red hair or lacks that melancholy Irish lilt in his voice, then Liam O’Reilly would just as soon see him dead. Flayed open is more like it, his guts burned to a crisp so nothing can gain satisfaction or sustenance from his flesh. Feels that way about Comanche, too. His hate knows no boundaries. His spite is a source of pride. But you should know all of this—you gave him more power once you marched Charlie Langdon to his hangman’s noose. How does it feel to know you gave power to an evil man?”

Josiah could not challenge the statement, though he didn’t know much about Liam O’Reilly, just recent actions, since the spring, since running down Charlie Langdon—before then, he’d never heard of this Liam O’Reilly, this man the Comanche referred to as the Badger. “Is O’Reilly your friend or not?”

“You should hold your lips together, Ranger Wolfe, or you will lose your tongue,” the tall one said. He would be called Big Shirt if the short one was Little Shirt. “And the ability to assume, as well, that we are only doing O’Reilly’s bidding.”

They pushed on, walking beyond Scrap and Red, without further incident. Josiah was relieved, but far from certain of Scrap and Red’s fate. Or his own, for that matter.

Their horses, including Josiah’s Appaloosa, Clipper, were tied to trees near the barren creek fifty yards off to their left.

Josiah had to restrain himself from violently protesting at the thought of leaving Clipper behind, but decided to heed Big Shirt’s warning. He had no guns, no knives, no power . . . and nobody covering his back. As hard as it was, though, as long as they were walking away from Scrap and Red, then he was just going to go along and not make waves until the right opportunity presented itself.

The Indians’ plans seemed even more certain, and since they had the upper hand and had not killed all three of them in one fell swoop, their action propelled Josiah to believe even more that something was afoot that he did not understand.

What lay ahead of him was well within the grasp of his imagination, though.

He had seen firsthand what a swarm of Comanche or Kiowa warriors could—and would—do to a defenseless