The Badger's Revenge Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  EPILOGUE

  Praise for

  THE SCORPION TRAIL

  “Larry D. Sweazy’s Josiah Wolfe books promise to stand among the great Western series. Think The Rifleman in the deft hands of a Larry McMurtry or a Cormac McCarthy.”

  —Loren D. Estleman, Spur Award−winning author of

  The Book of Murdock

  “Larry D. Sweazy takes you on a fierce ride . . . This crisp, well-written story returns you to the West as it really was—and you’ll like being there.”

  —Cotton Smith, author of Ride for Rule Cordell

  and past president of Western Writers of America

  “Larry D. Sweazy writes a lively blend of mystery, action, and historical realism.”

  —John D. Nesbitt, Spur Award–winning author of Gather My Horses

  Praise for

  THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON

  “The Rattlesnake Season combines the slam-bang action of a good Western with the sensitivity of style and depth of character that used to be the hallmark of literary fiction.”

  —Loren D. Estleman, Spur Award–winning author of

  The Book of Murdock

  “A character-rich story about a Texas Ranger haunted by dark memories, on the hunt for a former comrade-in-arms turned killer.”

  —Elmer Kelton, seven-time Spur Award–winning author

  “There’s a new fresh voice in the pages of Western fiction . . . His powerful, authentic voice rings steel tough . . . A must read for the Western fan.”

  —Dusty Richards, Spur Award–winning author of Wulf’s Tracks

  “Larry D. Sweazy’s novel is a fast-paced, hard to put down book, chock-full of unforgettable characters you will be glad you met . . . a page-turner.”

  —Robert J. Conley, author of The Cherokee Nation

  and vice president of Western Writers of America

  Titles by Larry D. Sweazy

  Josiah Wolfe, Texas Ranger Series

  THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON

  THE SCORPION TRAIL

  THE BADGER’S REVENGE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE BADGER’S REVENGE

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / April 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Larry Sweazy.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47770-0

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my uncle,

  Robert “Bob” Byrne,

  the first writer to ever inspire me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No book ever gets written alone, and no book ever finds its way to a reader alone. As I wrote this book, several of the bookstores that had previously supported my work closed their doors, and it didn’t seem right not to acknowledge their passing.

  I walked in the doors of The Mystery Company in Carmel, Indiana, for the first time in the spring of 2004 after making my first professional short story sale to a western anthology (Texas Rangers, edited by Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg, Berkley Books, 2004). Jim Huang, the owner, happily agreed to stock the book and host a signing for me—my first. The Mystery Company has been my “home” bookstore ever since. The staff has always promoted my work, and I count many of them as my friends. Thank you, Jim, Austin, Edna, Moni, Jennie, Jaci, and everyone else at TMC for all that you’ve done for me over the years. You all will be sorely missed.

  The Wild in Noblesville, Indiana, was primarily a children’s bookstore, but the owner, Jane Shasserre Mills, welcomed my books and hand-sold a great many of them. Noblesville will not be the same without you or the store, Jane.

  I briefly met the staff at the Waldenbooks store in my hometown of Anderson, Indiana, but Eric and Stephanie went above the call of duty to host a great book signing for me. Thank you. I hope you both have found careers that allow your love of books to carry on.

  Finally, to all of the booksellers who have been gracious and kind to me, especially Margi Kingsley and the staff at the Noblesville Barnes & Noble, who are still fighting the good fight, making sure books find their way to readers’ hands every day, thank you for all that you continue to do.

  Also . . . this book wouldn’t have been p
ossible without the continuing support from my writing friends (you know who you are) and those who have helped guide my books to their final form: John Duncklee; the Berkley production team; Faith, Cherry, Liz, and Chris; and most importantly, Rose, whose confidence in me never wavers.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The challenge of mixing fiction with history is never ending, especially when the mix includes a venerable organization such as the Texas Rangers. In each of my books, I have tried to capture the high-quality character and spirit of the Rangers, most eloquently described by Walter Prescott Webb in his highly respected book Texas Rangers: A Century of Frontier Defense (University of Texas Press, 2008): “No Texas Ranger ever fanned a hammer when he was serious, or made a hip shot if he had time to catch a sight. The real Ranger has been a very quiet, deliberate, gentle person who could gaze calmly into the eye of a murderer, divine his thoughts, and anticipate his action, a man who could ride straight up to death.”

  Mr. Webb’s ideal of a Ranger is a high standard. One that continues to be apparent in the modern Texas Ranger organization. It is my hope that every time I tell a Ranger story, I uphold the character and honor of all Texas Rangers, past and present.

  For other historical works concerning the Texas Rangers and the Frontier Battalion, the following books have served me well: Lone Star Justice: The First Century of the Texas Rangers by Robert M. Utley (Berkley, 2002); The Texas Rangers: Wearing the Cinco Peso, 1821–1900 by Mike Cox (Forge, 2008); Six Years with the Texas Rangers, 1875—1881 by James B. Gillet (Bison Books, 1976).

  Online resources such as The Handbook of Texas and Texas Ranger Dispatch magazine, have also been helpful in portraying the Texas Rangers as accurately, and honorably, as possible.

  PROLOGUE

  October 1861

  The forceful north wind pushed through the walls of the cabin, searching out every nook, cranny, and snakesized hole it could find. It was a harsh cold that was nearly bone chilling, a surprise to a young man’s skin that was more accustomed to long, hot, Texas summers than the mystery of the Dakotas or the promise of constant blizzards in the faraway land of Montana. It was the first hint of the coming winter, and the certainty of the change of seasons was not lost on Josiah Wolfe, who slowly stirred awake under a thin blanket, wholly unprepared to step foot on the floor and get a start on the day.

  Winter in East Texas was mild, and the deep drop in the temperature was an anomaly, a drop more akin to late January mornings, though rare even then, than October ones. Beyond the suddenness of the cold, roiling clouds were visible through the window, lighting the room in gloomy shadows instead of the happy sunshine Josiah had hoped for the night before. He’d finally drifted off to sleep, fear mixing with excitement over the new adventure that lay in wait for him the next day.

  Josiah pulled the blanket over his head and tried to snuggle deeper into the feather mattress and fall back asleep.

  He had dreaded the coming of this day, even though he had been more than excited by some of the prospects of it.

  He was sure he was ready for whatever was coming his way. He had to be, but . . . the pine cabin had always been just over the next horizon, even when he had ventured into Tyler or Waco as a boy, then as a young man, with his father or a friend nearly always at his side. Texas was all he knew, the only part of the world that made sense to him. Leaving it made him nervous, but not in a can’t-breathe kind of way, just nervous in a not-knowing-what’s-next kind of way.

  If only the cause of his leaving Texas were to see the world for fun and profit and not to take up arms in a war he had yet to understand, then he would have been truly excited. But that was not to be. He was off to war, as an infantryman in the newly formed Texas Brigade. A young soldier, green to the sight of death outside of the barn, or the sight of blood rushing out of the body of a wounded Union soldier, perhaps at his hand, instead of a pig or a cow. Battle, and its consequences, was just too uncomfortable to imagine.

  The day of his departure had arrived with the push of a cold, hard wind—whether he was ready or not.

  Below, under the loft where he’d slept since he could remember, his mother moved about as quietly as she could, preparing the morning meal. The deep aroma of coffee reached his nose, further provoking him to climb out from underneath the comfortable blanket.

  He glanced out the window as he stood, searching for the silhouette of his father walking the land, or coming out of the barn, easing through his morning chores. But Josiah saw nothing moving. It was almost like the world was frozen in the thick gloom of the perpetually gray morning—the same color of the uniform he would soon be wearing—and neither his father, nor any other living creature it seemed, dared set foot on the ground before Josiah did.

  The fields beyond the cabin were freshly harvested; the smell of decay yet to set on the wind, but there was still work to be done on the small stretch of land that Josiah Wolfe had called home his entire life.

  Firewood still needed to be chopped, feed gathered for the horses and sole surviving cow, which had been mated with the Halversons’ bull for next year’s meat, and whatever other provisions needed to be put up in the larder to get his mother and father through the winter. None of those chores were his concern now. The burden of providing for the farm would fall squarely on the shoulders of his father—who was more than able, still a strapping man as the age of fifty rapidly approached. Josiah knew his parents’ life would have been made more comfortable if they would have been blessed with another son, or even a daughter. But that was not to be. Josiah was their only son, their only child—and now he was duty-bound to leave home for points unknown, where a battle waited to be fought and blood waited to be spilled.

  Thunder boomed in the distance, so far away the claps were more like drumming echoes—or cannons firing in a war that had yet to reach the confines of Texas, but surely would soon enough.

  The thunder drew Josiah’s attention away from the window, and then, without one quick look of regret around the loft, he shimmied down the ladder.

  “Where’s Pa?” Josiah asked, rubbing his forearms, shivering, as he planted his bare feet on the cold plank floor.

  His mother had her back to him, standing over the stove. He was at least a head and a half taller than she was, had been since he was nigh on fifteen, a summer when he’d shot up as quick and tall as a hearty corn stalk. Her hair was pulled back and wound up off of her shoulders for the day’s work ahead. There were faint brittle streaks of gray mixed in with her soft dark brown hair. Age was marking his mother with thin wrinkles and those hints of gray, almost too invisible to see, but she still looked young to Josiah.

  The smell of hot bacon grease met with the aroma of coffee, and Josiah’s stomach complained loudly. A piece of bread sizzled and fried in the skillet, and a pot of beans began to bubble.

  “It isn’t much.” His mother turned and faced him. Her eyes betrayed any strength she may have found in her morning routine; they brimmed with tears, a dam ready to burst. She spun quickly back around to the stove, flipping the bread, so, perhaps, he would not see her cry. There was no need. He had heard her soft cries throughout the night. There was no comforting her. He had tried for days after his enlistment, to no avail. She opposed the war inside the walls of her own home, and she was opposed to Josiah fighting in it no matter the reason or cause.

  Josiah took a deep breath and bear-hugged his mother from behind. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know. That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Where’s Pa?”

  His mother wiggled a bit uncomfortably, and Josiah eased back, freeing her from his gentle embrace.

  “He went into town,” she said.

  “Seerville?”

  She shook her head no. “Tyler.”

  “But the boys are mustering in Seerville, then we’re off north to meet up with the rest of the Brigade.”

  “I know. I tried to talk him out of it. But you know how your father is.” She served up his breakfast on an enam
el plate and handed it to him, forcing a smile. “Eat up. We haven’t much time.”

  Josiah did as he was told, hurried to the small table and sat in his regular chair, glaring at the empty one that was his father’s.

  The year before Josiah was born, his father had fought in the Cherokee War of 1839. The Battle of Neches occurred just a few miles outside of Tyler. Three Texans were killed and five wounded. One of the wounded was Josiah’s father, and he had walked with a limp in his right leg ever since. Josiah had never known his father when there wasn’t some pain to bear because of the injury, but it was never discussed, never talked about, never given credence or used as an excuse. More than a hundred Indians were killed in that battle, the rest driven into the Arkansas Territory, and after healing, Josiah’s father lost his taste for war and killing, but he had not tried to stop Josiah from joining the Texas Brigade.

  Leonard Wolfe knew better than anyone that Josiah would be subjected to unbearable scrutiny and prejudice if he did not go off to war like the rest of the boys in the area. Josiah was healthy, of age, and it was his duty to prove his love of Texas, and now the Confederacy. But Leonard Wolfe did not encourage the enlistment, either, or show any more joy than his wife did, when Josiah made his decision to follow his friends into battle. Instead, he acted as though nothing had happened at all.

  The storm that had been on the horizon settled squarely above the cabin. Josiah finished his breakfast and hurried to get ready, ignoring the push of rain and cold wind under the door.