The Badger's Revenge Read Free

argue. Be wary—the Langdons have always had a troublesome, untrustworthy streak. Now, go. Go, before I lock you inside the house and never let you leave.”
    Josiah hesitated, then returned his mother’s kiss, grabbed his gear, and headed out into the raging, cold wind, ignoring the thunder, lightning, and the sound of his mother sobbing behind the door like someone had died in her arms.
    He ran toward town, toward the regiment that was waiting for him, hoping that his father would be waiting for him along the road. But he wasn’t. His father was gone, and Josiah was left to face the most important day of his life without a word of advice, a comforting nod, or a wink of the eye that acknowledged an inkling of pride. He could barely contain his rage.

CHAPTER 1

    November, 1874
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    The first shot didn’t come as a surprise.
    Josiah Wolfe and two other Texas Rangers from the Frontier Battalion, Scrap Elliot and Red Overmeyer, had tracked a lone Comanche scout easing into a dry creek bed, taking cover in a thin stand of brittle switchgrass.
    The Comanche had seemed certain he hadn’t been seen—but now he knew he was wrong. The trio had been aware of the scout’s presence for more than a couple of miles, following after him, as stealthily as possible, to a spot where they were certain they had enough cover to engage the Indian and return him to camp for questioning, as they had been ordered to do by the captain of their company, Pete Feders.
    Indians had been rustling cattle, and the Rangers had been charged with bringing a stop to the practice. Good, bad, or otherwise, there didn’t seem much end to the rustling. Josiah hadn’t objected to the assignment, but he did find it curious that Feders wanted a Comanche captured, not killed. The only thing Josiah could figure was the Rangers were getting a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later and Feders had been instructed by the higher-ups, more specifically either Major John B. Jones or Governor Richard Coke himself, to polish their reputation a bit. Didn’t make much sense though, since killing Indians did more for their reputation than anything else.
    Whatever the case, Josiah was in no position to question the motives behind the orders. He was in charge, a sergeant to the two men, one a fine weathered Ranger, the other a boy still trying to prove his manhood, as far as Josiah was concerned, as he eyed the Comanche cautiously.
    A soft glow of fresh morning light covered the rolling ground leading to the creek, the land dropping slowly in the distance toward the struggling San Saba River. The cool November air was salty, and the creek the Indian lay prone in was a brine spring all used up, still crusty and white with alkali. Nothing could live off that soil, or at least it didn’t make sense for any kind of critter to be able to, other than the mass of flittering insects that hovered inches off the ground.
    Even on a cloudless day, there was a depressed, hopeless feel to the place. A few gnarly live oaks and mesquites dotted the hill country landscape, and the Rangers had taken refuge behind a small crop of boulders once Red Overmeyer was certain the Comanche scout had detected them.
    The first shot pinged off the straight-edged rock just above Red Overmeyer’s head, echoing in the crisp air, announcing to any creature or man within a few miles that something was amiss.
    â€œDang, that foul Indian damn near took my ear off.” Red raised his carbine in retaliation but did not immediately pull the trigger, looking to Josiah for permission to start returning fire.
    â€œHe’s lookin’ to do more than that,” Scrap Elliot said.
    â€œCareful with your aim, men. Captain Feders was strict with his orders about bringing the raiders to justice. The scout needs to be interrogated.” Josiah focused on the spot where the shot had come from, then glanced over at Scrap Elliot. Scrap had an itchy