“Wait here,” Josiah said to Scrap as he slid off the saddle and planted his feet solidly on the ground.
“Why do I always have to wait?”
Josiah didn’t answer Scrap, he just plodded off inside the stable, a large wood-frame barn capable of holding at least a hundred horses. Just inside, he stopped to look around, to see if there was anyone moving about. There was a new smell to some of the wood, but the rafters were full of swallow’s nests made of mud, empty now since winter was coming on. For the most part, the barn looked empty, until he heard a loud snore rumble out of one of the tack rooms.
He went to investigate and found a Negro settled in the corner, lying on a bed of straw, sleeping away even though it was nearing noon.
“Excuse me,” Josiah said, standing at the door.
The man continued to snore.
Josiah walked into the room and kicked the man’s boot. “Excuse me, are you Dixie Jim?” He asked louder this time.
The man roused, rolled off his side, opened his eyes, then sprang up, reaching for his gun—which wasn’t there since he didn’t have a gun belt on. It was only then that Josiah noticed that he only had one foot. A crutch was propped up in the corner.
“Whoa,” Josiah said, throwing up both hands like he was getting held up. “I don’t mean you any harm. Juan Carlos sent me.”
The man was about half a head shorter than Josiah and maybe ten years older, it was hard to tell, but there was white starting to mix in his wavy black hair. His skin was ten times darker than any Mexican Josiah had ever seen, and he assumed the man was one of the Negro-Seminole scouts that worked out of Fort Clark. His face, with a bold straight nose and blue eyes, was more Indian than Negro. The clothes the man wore were little more than rags. It looked like he had lost his foot just above the ankle, and his pant leg was tied in a knot, just barely raking the ground when he moved.
“Are you Dixie Jim?” Josiah asked, again.
The man nodded, realizing that he didn’t have a gun. He slapped his hand to his side, gave Josiah a snarl, then hopped over to get his crutch. “I am. What you want? Ain’t you got no manners seeing a man sleeping, you leave him alone?”
The room smelled like Josiah had walked inside a whiskey barrel. “Sorry about that, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“You say Juan Carlos sent you? You a friend?”
“I am. We’re on a mission for Captain McNelly.”
“Don’t know no McNelly. Where’s Juan Carlos?”
“He was shot in town. When we left him, he wasn’t doing so good, couldn’t continue on with us. The last words he spoke to me were about you. I’m hoping you can help me.”
The crutch securely under his arm, Dixie Jim stared at Josiah with focused uncertainty. “Was supposed to be waiting for Juan Carlos. Got tired of waiting, I did. You a drinkin’ man? What’s your name?”
“Josiah. Josiah Wolfe.”
Dixie Jim nodded, recognition lighting his eyes, and said, “Ah, you want me to help you track that Badger, that’s what they call him, eh? Liam O’Reilly. I’m no killer, are you?”
“I am if I have to be.”
CHAPTER 40
With the horses refreshed and the saddlebags restocked for another two-hundred-mile journey, Josiah, Scrap, and Dixie Jim made their way out of Fort Clark near evening.
The sun was setting off to the west, the sky promising to be clear of clouds or weather. Unlike the first morning out of Austin, there were no hints of red, no warnings that they were going to be traveling in any kind of inhospitable weather. Just the opposite, in fact. The world seemed quiet and comfortable, ready for night to fall and allow a bit of rest to those whose work was done for the day.
Josiah understood the need to ride at night, but he wasn’t crazy about the idea. If Juan Carlos had been leading the way, that would have been different, but he wasn’t.
There was no way to know whether the Mexican was alive or dead, and Josiah hadn’t worked up enough trust in Dixie Jim to wholly go along with the plan without some silent reservations—which he’d keep to himself for a while, watching the ground and the trail as closely as he could, employing his own tracking skills, such as they were.
They made their way along Las Moras Creek at a steady pace, and not long into the ride they passed a barren tree with about a hundred or so vultures that had come in to roost for the night. The sky was gray, and the tree was an old sycamore with white, peeling bark that made it look half-dead, or like bones sticking up high out of the soft, swampy ground.
The big black birds didn’t make a sound, nor did they seem the least bit disturbed by the travelers’ presence—they just watched the trio pass by, a few of the redheaded vultures bobbing their heads and blasting the ground with splats of white liquid excrement, flapping their six-foot wings casually.
“Nasty old birds, those buzzards. Friends on the wind, and food at night if you’re hungry enough,” Dixie Jim said. “Rather burn that meat so it don’t stink so bad on my tongue.”
“Good to know,” Josiah said.
He’d made a deal with Dixie Jim, promising to carry three bottles of whiskey and dole it out in bits at a time —after they made camp. In return, the scout promised to get them where they needed to go, by the safest, fastest way possible, and that meant a lot of traveling at night. Josiah had to do everything in his power to trust Dixie Jim, and withholding whiskey from the man was a good start. Scrap had to keep his mouth shut for two hundred miles. One task was going to be easier than the other.
Dixie Jim was in the lead, riding a small Indian paint mare and carrying very little with him. No rifle, his crutch instead stuffed into the scabbard. He only bore a gun on his hip, an old war model Colt with a little rust growing on the outside of the barrel. As far as Josiah was concerned, the gun was more for show than actual use.
Scrap brought up the rear, once again, with Josiah riding comfortably in the middle of the trio.
Josiah was glad to be on the trail, glad to be away from Brackett and the fort, but uncertain of how things were going to work out. If there was a larger plan that he had been unaware of when they set out from Austin, then the details had been left behind in the mind of Juan Carlos.
It was possible that Juan Carlos and Pete Feders knew of each other’s presence and movement toward Laredo to put an end to Liam O’Reilly’s freedom once and for all.
Feders had spent a lot of time riding with Captain Hiram Fikes, which, of course, meant he had spent a lot of time riding with Juan Carlos—who was never far from his half brother’s side while he was alive.
Juan Carlos knew Pete Feders better, or knew more about him, than anybody, including Josiah himself—at least, as far as Josiah knew.
Regardless, Josiah was determined to use Dixie Jim’s skills to ferret out Liam O’Reilly, then formulate a plan once they found him. It was not how Josiah liked to operate, but he was too far from home to turn back, and too close to Laredo not to finish the mission he’d been assigned by Captain McNelly, even though the charge itself had come through indirect channels.
If Feders was near, then they’d cross paths and go from there.
The Las Moras was in an easy mood since it was November. The water was still as a mirror, reflecting the first star of the evening as it appeared in the darkening eastern sky. Spring rains were long since a memory.
The creek still offered hope of a fish or two, if the need arose along the way—so that was an encouraging thought as far as Josiah was concerned. Chewing on jerky got old real fast.
“Keep it quiet, there, boys. Might be eyes on us even in the night. Apache or Kickapoo might mistake you for Lieutenant John Bullis or Colonel Mackenzie,” Dixie Jim said. “They’d love nuttin’ more than to rile the tribe with a scalp or two, regardless of us bein’ army or not.”
