The Gila Wars Read online

  Josiah held the paper tight in his hand, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news to anyone he came into contact with. But the town would know soon enough of the decisions they’d have to make, once they knew what he did, and Josiah was betting they’d follow Charlie’s lead.

  Every man, woman, and child would run out of town as quickly as possible, angry, in search of a new way of life, a new way of looking at the world, rather than staying and building something out of the ruin, turning bad luck into good.

  With his shoulders slumped and Charlie’s badge in hand, Josiah walked into his office, sat down at the desk, propped his feet back up, and wished he could get the dream back that had slipped away when Charlie fired off the first round into the air, but he knew that was impossible. The past was gone. And now all he could do was wait for the future to catch up to him.

  CHAPTER 1

  June 1875

  The sky pulsed with tiny pokes of silver stars, piercing the black blanket of night for as far as the eye could see. A fire struggled to stay lit in the center of camp, the last bit of mesquite tossed onto it nearly three hours before, when watch duty had changed. Orange coals breathed in and out underneath the fire, almost matching the rhythm of the faraway stars, and the comforting smell of smoke was as noticeable and welcome as the pot of Arbuckle’s coffee that had yet to come to a full boil.

  A thin line of gray pushed up on the eastern horizon, offering the first glimpse of the new day. It had been a long, warm night, preceded by a hotter than normal day. The expected heat of summer had set in early, and a dry spring had made it seem like mid-August instead of early June.

  Some of the Rangers of Company A stirred about, waking slowly, not making much noise. But mostly, the larger number of men still slept, getting as much rest for the coming day as possible. There was not a one of them that didn’t know the night before that the threat of a real fight with Juan Cortina and his men lay at their feet and was likely to be a memorable confrontation. Josiah Wolfe, for one, would be glad to get on with the day; glad it was here, so it could be over with.

  “Day’s a-comin’ on fast, Wolfe,” Scrap Elliot said in a low voice. He sat at the edge of the fire pit, his bedroll and belongings already stored away, ready to be packed onto his horse, a trusted blue roan mare he called Missy.

  “You sure you’re up for it?” Josiah was sitting next to Scrap, watching him roll a cigarette—Scrap called them quirlies—keeping his eye on the coffeepot at the same time.

  There was a sweet smell to the coffee, most likely from the egg and sugar coating that had brought roasted coffee to the West. Before 1865, and during the War Between the States, coffee beans were green, less flavorful when they were boiled. Josiah had seen more than one fight break out over the ever-present peppermint stick that came with the package of Arbuckle’s.

  Josiah’s bedroll was still laid out on the hard ground, and the volume of his voice was just above a whisper. He didn’t want to get Scrap riled up, and it wouldn’t take much. One wrong word could set the boy off.

  “Now that’s one of the silliest things I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth, Wolfe,” Scrap said, in full voice. “Why would you think I wouldn’t be ready for a good fight?”

  Scrap was in his early twenties, almost twelve years younger than Josiah. He was fit but thin, lean but strong, and as hot-tempered and opinionated as any man in the company, as far as Josiah was concerned. Even on a good day, Scrap Elliot was unpredictable, but he was a fine horseman, and an even a better shot, to boot. He’d saved Josiah’s life more than once with his gun skills.

  “You haven’t been the same since that recent business in Austin,” Josiah said.

  Scrap finished rolling his quirlie, stuck it in his mouth, then produced a match, seemingly out of nowhere, and lit the cigarette in one swift flick of the wrist. He drew in a hard, deep, breath, and the tip of the tobacco blazed orange, nearly matching the color of the coals at the bottom of the fire. “That business is over with, Wolfe. I’m a free man.” He glared at Josiah as he exhaled, then looked away to the distant horizon.

  “I’m just asking. No need to get angry this early in the day. Save it for Cortina. I’ll not speak of Austin, or of your time in jail, again.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  A small bird flittered overhead, distracting both of them with the surprise of its movement. Josiah wasn’t sure what kind of bird it was. They’d camped at the edge of a motte, a thick grove of oak trees, not too far from the Arroyo Colorado, a fresh-water inlet that drained out to the Gulf. The spring migration was over with, or nearly so.

  The winged spectacle that filled the sky, and ground, in the spring with all kinds of colorful birds was a sight to behold. Some went on north, and some stayed in South Texas. Like Juan Cortina and his legion of cattle rustlers, the birds knew no borders. This one whistled hoarsely, just above them, like it was trying to find its voice, then flew off to the west, seeking out the top of another oak tree, where it started singing in earnest.

  The song was soft at first, a series of three or four similar notes. As the gray line on the eastern horizon grew, so did the bird’s volume. For the moment, it sang solo.

  An uncomfortable silence settled between Josiah and Scrap.

  The business Josiah had spoken of involved Scrap getting caught up in a string of murders that had occurred in Austin, being falsely accused, then being thrown in solitary confinement in the county jail. A place that was commonly referred to as the Black Hole of Calcutta because of its dismal environment and the custom of prisoners walking in on two feet only to be sent out flat on their back in a pine box, deader than a doornail. Ultimately, Scrap had been cleared of any wrongdoing because of Josiah and Captain McNelly’s efforts, but his freedom had not come easy, or without consequences.

  “I don’t want you to think I ain’t appreciative of what you done for me, Wolfe.” Scrap took a long draw on the quirlie, making brief eye contact with Josiah.

  The smell of the coffee grew sweeter and cut through the acrid smoke, signaling that the boiling of it was done enough.

  Josiah got up, grabbed two porcelain cups, and poured himself and Scrap a healthy dose of morning coffee. It steamed generously, and the smell of it was strong, almost overwhelming, but not too unfriendly.

  “I was not right on my feet for a long time after I got home from the war,” Josiah said. “I’m just making sure you’re not as skittish as that morning bird, that’s all. Captain McNelly’s going to need us at our best. This fight’s been a long time coming. I just want to make sure you’re up to it, that’s all.”

  Scrap nodded, took the last draw off of his quirlie, then stubbed it out on the bottom of his boot. He placed the remaining, half-smoked cigarette in a small white cloth bag, and stuffed it back into his pocket. The comfort and habit of smoking was never too far from his reach.

  Josiah, who had never acquired the taste for tobacco, had noticed Scrap reaching for his quirlies more than normal since they’d been on the trail south. And the boy’s skin, which was normally a thin shade of unblemished white, seemed even paler than normal. Scrap was a skinny, muscled broomstick, with a dollop of unruly black at the top of his head. He looked like something had been drained out of him. Josiah just wasn’t sure what that something was, but there was no mistaking that a deep constitutional change had occurred, something serious, whether Scrap wanted to admit it or not.

  “I’m ready for Cortina,” Scrap said. “Don’t you worry none about me or my shootin’ abilities. We missed him this spring when we came back to Corpus, and you left us to return to Austin when Lyle was sick. But I got a feelin’ he’s close this time around. The air smells foul, don’t it?”

  Josiah took a swig of the coffee, glad for the heat from it, pushing away the last remains of sleep. “That past spring seems ages ago.” He ignored Scrap’s question.

  Scrap nodded yes. “I’m glad Lyle’s
all right. I feared he had the same fevers that took the rest of your family.”

  Josiah swallowed hard, not wanting to revisit the loss of his wife and three daughters who had died before he joined the Texas Rangers. “Lyle’s good for a four-year-old.”

  “You don’t talk about him much.”

  “It’s hard being away, but he’s in good hands with Ofelia.”

  “Says you.”

  The uncomfortable silence returned between the two men then. This silence was a familiar one. Scrap didn’t look kindly on Ofelia, the Mexican woman who cared for Josiah’s son while he was on the trail with the Rangers. Josiah’s wife, Lily, weakened by the fevers and flu that had taken his three daughters, too, had died in childbirth four years earlier, and eventually, Josiah had moved to Austin from Seerville, just outside of Tyler, bringing Ofelia with him.

  Scrap’s prejudice was not uncommon, but it was unwelcome. Josiah had no choice in the matter if he was going to continue serving as a Ranger. He was courting a fine woman back in Austin, Pearl Fikes, but they were still a good ways from marriage, if that ever came into being, so as it was, Ofelia was the only woman, the only person in the world, really, that Josiah trusted enough to leave his son with.

  The only other alternative was to quit the Rangers for good and find a way to make a living that kept him at home, in the city. It was not a consideration that Josiah was fond of, especially after spending so much time there recently, but he knew the day might come when becoming an Austinite would be a necessity instead of a choice. Luckily, and happily, today was not that day.

  “Cortina is close,” Josiah said, changing the subject. “I heard tell last night, after coming off watch, that there’s a Cuban steamer sitting out in the bay, ready to take a load of beeves off Cortina’s hands, most of them with American brands.”

  “King Ranch brands, I’ll betchya.”

  “Likely. It’ll take a load of men to see this deal through, and Cortina’s not going to let it fall on unwatched shoulders. I’m just sorry we weren’t up for the scouting duties. I’da been happy to’ve been one of the boys Captain McNelly sent out into the night to find out what Cortina’s up to, and how many men he’s really got on his side.”

  “You and me both.” Scrap drank his coffee and looked away from Josiah again, staring off into the distance. It was like he was looking for something, but knew full well from the beginning that whatever it was wasn’t there.

  The smell of bacon frying hit Josiah’s nose, coming from another fire close by. Soft voices murmured about, drifting up and around him on a slight breeze. Another bird had joined in on the conversation with the one that had flown to the top of the nearby tree. Gray daylight pushed up on the horizon, chasing away the darkness eagerly now, quicker, without regret, or without giving a second thought to turning back. There was no choice in the matter; darkness would lose the battle because it was the way things worked, just how it was. Daylight always won out over night. Always.

  If only it were that easy, Josiah thought. If only it were that easy.

  He stood up then and glanced down a slight rise to the spot in the camp where the captain slept; a white cotton wall tent that was reminiscent of those used in the War Between the States. It glowed from the inside out. Captain McNelly was awake, probably had been moving about before any of them, including Josiah, had stirred. There was no movement to be seen inside the tent, but that meant little. The captain was probably reading, studying, thinking, strategizing about the day ahead of them all. McNelly was a strong, disciplined man, even though he suffered from one of the worst afflictions of consumption that Josiah had ever seen.

  Several rows of smaller tents, white as well, that were often referred to as dog tents, spread out past the captain’s tent. Josiah, Scrap, and a few of the other boys had chosen to sleep under the stars, with just their bedrolls and an open camp. Josiah and Scrap both liked to be ready to go at a moment’s notice if there was no weather to contend with. Some things they agreed on, without question.

  The smell of bacon was coming from the fire just outside of McNelly’s tent. Josiah was about to scrounge up some breakfast for himself, and the men around their fire, when he heard a low roar of thunder rise up behind him. Scrap heard it, too, and they both turned to face it together.

  It was immediately apparent that it wasn’t thunder they’d heard; the sky had remained perfectly clear. The sudden rumble was a battery of horse hooves heading their way.

  There was a circle of men on night watch duty surrounding the camp, and no alarm had been set off, bringing all of the Rangers to arms, so Josiah knew that the rolling trample of hooves must be the return to camp of Lieutenant Clement Robinson and the eighteen men who had been charged to go out and scout Cortina’s position.

  The troop of men, led by a bearded, fiercely focused Robinson, a man Josiah knew little about but liked and respected immediately upon meeting him on this trip out, appeared out of the fuzzy grayness of morning, heading straight for the open camp.

  Josiah realized that he was standing in the middle of the throughway and jumped back just in time.

  Robinson, riding a sweating chestnut gelding, yelled at the top of his lungs, but his words were lost to the unrelenting pace of all of the horses behind him. The ground under Josiah’s feet vibrated, and if any man was still asleep in the camp it was because he was either deaf or dead. The message was clear, though: Move out of the way. We have something urgent to tell the captain.

  It didn’t take Josiah but a second to divine what that urgent message was. There were not eighteen scouts. They had picked up an extra man. There were nineteen horses. Robinson had a prisoner, a Mexican bound on a smaller horse than the chestnut gelding, struggling to keep up with the rest, its bit tied to the rider in front of it, the man second to Robinson.

  Josiah assumed the Mexican was one of Cortina’s men. His clothes were ragged, his eyes defeated, his hands bound tightly, and his face bruised and bloodied. There was no sign of any bullet wound, but the stubby little man leaned forward, like he was in great pain. The lean might have only been one of fear, or part of a plot to escape, but Josiah doubted that. No man was stupid enough to try to break free in a camp of Rangers hungry to quell Juan Cortina. Not if he was in his right mind.

  The troop of scouts pushed by, offering no explanation, only a cloud of unsettled dust in their wake. Most of the men had smiles on their faces, though. They knew what waited for them out in the world beyond the camp; a battle, a chance at victory, and now they seemed to have confidence, the upper hand. It would be a good tonic for all of the Rangers to drink before setting out.

  Josiah watched, a familiar taste rising from deep inside his throat, as Robinson stopped in front of McNelly’s tent, quickly dismounted, and disappeared inside.

  “Looks like they found more than they were lookin’ for,” Scrap said, dusting the dirt off his shoulder.

  “Or exactly what Cortina intended them to find,” Josiah answered, his hand slipping unconsciously to the grip of his Peacemaker as he scanned the horizon, certain as the sky was gray that they were being watched and scouted themselves.

  CHAPTER 2

  There were no men in Company A who questioned Captain Leander McNelly’s capacity to lead a successful campaign against Juan Cortina—or any outlaw, for that matter.

  At first glance, the man looked weak and too racked with consumption to have any kind of productive life at all. He was thin as an arrow, short in stature, his face gaunt and his skin white and pasty. At times, in the sad light of the evening, McNelly looked like a ghost, uncomfortable in this world. His dark brown hair held a natural wave to it, and his goatee was thick and flowed over his chin like a deep fall of dark water. He was neat and tidy about himself, his years of military life evident in every movement and forethought.

  Originally from Virginia, McNelly’s family had moved to Texas in search of a better life as sheep farm
ers, and weather that would be more suitable for the young Leander. At the age of seventeen, McNelly enlisted in Company F of the Fifth Regiment of the Texas Mounted Volunteers, serving the Confederacy through the war. He was wounded once, severely, in the Battle of Mansfield in 1864. He took no leave and returned to duty as soon as he was able to stand, leading scouts into Texas, rounding up deserters.

  After the war, McNelly returned to Texas, and when he wasn’t on his family farm near Burton, he served in the State Police along with another of Josiah’s mentors and fellow veterans of the war, Hiram Fikes. Most recently, as the head of the Special Forces, McNelly’s memorable outing put an end to the Sutton-Taylor feud in Dewitt County.

  The hoots, hollers, and lack of order so early in the morning drew Captain Leander McNelly out of his tent, fully dressed, looking agitated and annoyed by the shenanigans in his camp. Lieutenant Robinson’s arrival was not unexpected, but the timing was a surprise.

  Josiah and Scrap had followed the troop of scouts and their captive to McNelly’s tent, joining the other Rangers in the camp. They were all pressed together, casting an ear toward the tent as Lieutenant Robinson dragged the unwilling Mexican to face McNelly.

  “Unhand the man, Robinson,” McNelly ordered, running his eyes up and down the Mexican, offering little emotion.

  Robinson immediately let go of the Mexican. There was no threat since the man’s hands were bound tight with rope, and he had most assuredly been searched and relieved of any weapons, including any knives hidden on his person, before being brought into camp.

  The Mexican looked weak and scared as he stumbled forward, stopping inches from McNelly. The captain did not flinch.