The Badger's Revenge (14 page)

Lady Mead had proven to be a comfortable ride right out of the gate. The mare was no replacement for Clipper, but she would do—at least for getting him down the muddy road to meet his fate, and hopefully beyond.

The Spencer was tucked lightly into the scabbard, and Josiah took this as the first opportunity to handle Charlie Webb's Colt Frontier.

The six-shooter handled fine and felt comfortable in his hand. Still, there was a hesitation in Josiah's grip. The fact that he was wearing a set of dead man's clothes, riding his horse, and holding his gun did not fail to escape his attention. He figured that, from a distance, he just might look like Charlie Webb's ghost, come back from the great beyond to claim his revenge.

It was not a thought he relished, being mistaken for a ghost. But it just might help throw O'Reilly, or his thugs, off Josiah's trail long enough for him to get to the sheriff's office—which was his plan. The other side of things was a bit uglier. It wouldn't take much for anybody to figure out where Josiah had re-outfitted himself. Somehow, he had to manage to keep Billie Webb safe.

The only way he knew to do that was to stay alive. Which was the other part of his plan. He wasn't sure how that was going to happen. Just that it had to.

 

 

A mangy black-and-white dog ran from behind
the first house Josiah passed and started barking its fool head off. The door to the house was open, and so were the windows. Pale blue curtains flipped in the breeze, and other than the dog, the house was silent.

The sun beamed down from overhead, the cold thrust of yesterday's rain a thing of the past. The day was warm, especially by November standards. Sweat beaded under the brim of Josiah's felt Stetson—his own—and the clothes he was wearing felt itchy against his skin. They still held a hint of lye in them, and mixed with the heat and the task he was riding into, the smell made him more nervous and uncomfortable than he already was.

The Colt Frontier was loaded and ready. Josiah usually wore a swivel rig, but Charlie preferred a Mexican loop holster. Another odd choice, akin to the lack of a Winchester, but the Mexican holster was functional, though it told nothing of Charlie's past or the reasoning for his choices. Not that it mattered.

What was really important was that Josiah remember the limitations of the simple holster when the time came to use the gun. It really wasn't much more than a piece of tanned cowhide with a couple of nails holding it together.

Josiah shooed away the dog, annoyed at the alarm it was raising on the outskirts of town, but oddly, as he looked ahead, down the wide and muddy main street, the town seemed nearly vacant.

There were a couple of horses tied up in front of the saloon, and one in front of the Darcy Hotel, but no traffic coming and going. The Butterfield had probably come and gone, since it was past mid-morning, but it was unsettling not to see one soul, man or woman, making their way to and fro on the boardwalk.

Josiah kneed Lady Mead a bit, bringing her up to a trot to get past the dog. He scanned the tops of the buildings for lookouts and saw nothing, all the while easing the Spencer out of the scabbard and chambering a round.

He passed by a few more empty houses, and a chill ran down his spine. It felt like he had just ridden into a town besieged by some quick-acting sickness. Like it was a ghost town, even though Josiah knew better.

The heart of Comanche came up pretty quickly, and Josiah slowed the palomino to an easy gait. He headed straight for the sheriff's office, which was easy enough to find, since it was two doors down from the saloon.

He eased off the horse, all of his senses fully engaged. It felt like he was walking right into the heart of the land of Yankees without one soldier backing him up. The grip he held on the rifle was tight, but not so tight that it would hinder his aim or reaction if need be. The Spencer was an unknown and untrusted friend going into certain battle.

Just then, a man with a shaggy beard stumbled out of the bar. He stopped and stared at Josiah. “Hey stranger, you're late.”

“Late for what, friend?” Josiah said.

“Bill Clarmont's funeral,” the man said with a slur.

Josiah felt his heart skip a beat—or, at least, it felt like it. He'd killed Bill Clarmont. He was holding the dead man's rifle. The whole town was probably at the man's funeral, which explained the silence and the absence of commerce.

The shaggy man stroked his beard and steadied himself on one of the batwing doors to the saloon. “You look familiar.”

Josiah stiffened. “I'm just passing through. Thought I'd stop in and speak with the sheriff.”

“Well, he ought to be out at the cemetery, but that there's his horse.”

“I'll just wait in the office for him to return then,” Josiah said.

In the distance, a church bell tolled. Doom and finality carried on an unseen wind and the rays of sunshine. They'd obviously had to wait out the downpour to bury Bill Clarmont.

“Suit yourself. I'm not one for funerals myself.”

Josiah nodded and pushed into the sheriff's office, the Spencer still in his grip. He took a deep breath and blinked his eyes, shocked at what he was seeing.

The sheriff, Roy something or other, Josiah hadn't picked up on the man's last name, was sitting in the chair at his desk, his head thrown completely back, a fresh bullet hole centered square in the man's forehead. Blood was still dripping on the floor.

The jail cells were empty, and all of the doors were standing wide open.

A loud rush of noise out in the street—horses
running at full speed—drew Josiah's attention away from the dead man. The thundering hooves were quickly followed by gunshots. There was nothing Josiah could do for the sheriff, so he dashed to the window.

Three men on horses sped past the sheriff's office, heading north, the opposite direction from which Josiah had come into town.

He recognized the three men immediately.

Liam O'Reilly and the Comanche brothers, Big Shirt and Little Shirt. They had bags thrown over their laps. Money bags, full and bulging.

Instead of rushing to the door, Josiah pulled the Spencer up and shot straight through the window.

Shattering glass exploded across the sill, but Josiah was ready for the fallout of his action; he dodged back quickly, dancing away from the shards as best he could, then returned to the window for another shot once the glass fell to the ground.

The three horses ran at a quick gallop, the muddy street holding them back slightly, but not slowing them enough for Josiah to get a great shot. There was a waterfall of mud flying behind the horses, globs hitting the ground in thumps, like someone was throwing muddy bombs from the roof of every building they passed. Two more breaths, and they'd be out of town, out of range—gone.

Josiah's second shot closed the deal.

Little Shirt tumbled off his horse, screaming, yelling words into the wind that only the breezes and his brother understood, his hand going for his blood-splattered shoulder rather than his gun.

The other two riders didn't even slow down, didn't offer to turn back and help if they could. Josiah didn't expect them to. He just hoped to get another shot off to stop them. He pulled the trigger on the second breath—the range too far, the shot too rushed to hit its target: the back of Liam O'Reilly's gnarly red head.

Little Shirt's horse reared back at the sound of the third shot, screaming and neighing wildly, frightened and confused by all the blasts, pulls, and tussles. Little Shirt had crashed into the mud, toppling without control, coming to a stop just shy of the boardwalk, stunned and injured—though how badly was hard to tell.

Josiah rushed out the door, putting himself behind Lady Mead. He had two shots left with the rifle, then the Spencer would become useless to him. At least, for the moment. So he had to make the shots count.

O'Reilly was certainly out of range, but still in sight.

The enraged Irishman was now fully aware of what had happened, though Josiah wasn't sure if the outlaw knew that he had been the one to take down Little Shirt. It didn't matter, other than making sure Billie Webb was free of retribution, so Josiah kept himself covered behind the horse.

They had been going in the opposite direction from Billie's house, so that was an immediate relief. O'Reilly was no fool. He would want to get as far away from Comanche as possible while the whole town was at the funeral. At least, Josiah hoped that was the case.

Josiah decided to try one last shot, so he laid the rifle across the horse's back, propped it up over his wrist, and sighted on O'Reilly, rays glaring off his red hair, making his head glow like a setting sun on the horizon.

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, out of the corner of his eye Josiah saw Little Shirt begin to move. The Comanche was struggling for the gun in his holster, staring at Josiah angrily, muttering words that no one could understand.

Josiah had no choice but to pull his aim off O'Reilly. He turned the barrel toward the Indian and pulled the trigger, certain and intent on killing yet another man.

There was not an ounce of regret careening through Josiah's body as he took the shot.

His heart was racing with anger and rage—the score almost settled now for the deaths of Red Overmeyer and the sheriff.

The only recent death that caused Josiah any moral concern at all was that of the deputy, Bill Clarmont, but he could trace that occurrence back to Little Shirt's action as well. If Josiah hadn't been apprehended for a bogus reward on his head that O'Reilly had brokered with the sheriff, then he would never have stepped a foot into Comanche in the first place, and Bill Clarmont would still be alive. Who knew what side of the law Clarmont really worked? It was hard to say, and perhaps impossible to ever know.

All Josiah knew was that he was in the town of Comanche unbidden, forced there against his will, by the two brothers and their obvious allegiance to Liam O'Reilly.

This next bullet caught Little Shirt at the very base of his throat. His head jerked back, nearly ripped off with the sudden tear of flesh.

Blood sprayed every which way it could, a spiderweb of red fluid contrasting on the dark brown mud of the road. The sickening sound of certain death had probably been heard from a half a block away.

This time Little Shirt fell straight back into the mud, unmoving after the fall.

When Josiah looked back up, Liam O'Reilly and Big Shirt were about to vanish over the horizon. The shot was lost. It would be a waste of a bullet, and he didn't have the luxury to waste any.

Chasing after the two men now seemed like a ride into more uncertainty, and he'd had enough uncertainty in the last few days to last him a good long time.

The two outlaws had the advantage of knowing the land and of having a full cadre of weapons, fully loaded, unlike Josiah, who only had one cartridge left in the Spencer and a belt full of bullets for the Colt Frontier.

He eased out from behind Lady Mead, who had handled the rifle fire with grace and courage, hardly wincing at all when Josiah fired the final shot that had ended Little Shirt's life. Or at least he assumed that the Indian was dead. He still wasn't going to take any chances.

The round in the Spencer was chambered, and each step Josiah took toward Little Shirt was heavy with caution.

Somewhere in the distance a woman screamed.

The scream came from the direction of the bank, and that did not surprise Josiah in the least.

Once he made sure that the Indian was truly dead, he'd go investigate. But not until he was certain he'd been as successful as he thought.

The only Comanche he trusted was a dead Comanche.

 

 

The door to the bank was standing wide open,
and a woman dressed all in black was bent over the floor, her back to Josiah. She was crying over a man in a brown tweed suit. A pair of eyeglasses lay shattered on the floor not too far from the man. A pool of blood surrounded the man's body.

There was no one else in the bank, at least as far as Josiah could tell. He'd left the Spencer behind, secured in the scabbard on Lady Mead's saddle, but for safety's sake, he had the Colt Frontier in his hand, loaded and ready.

Josiah was reasonably certain there was only a trio of outlaws, one dead, two on the run, but he couldn't be completely sure O'Reilly didn't have more men in Comanche, staying behind to do whatever meanness they could muster.

The vault door just past the tellers' cages was standing wide open. O'Reilly had robbed the bank while everyone was at Bill Clarmont's funeral.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Josiah said, stepping slowly into the bank.