saloon and the neighboring building without getting stuckâor shot at and killedâand make a run for it.
One more deep breath and Josiah was up on his feet, pushing sideways between the two buildings and down the wall as quick as he could, fleeing the Comanche brothers.
Little Shirt was still on the ground, rolling around in agony, and Big Shirt was still on his horse, shooting into the darkness, shouting, swearing he would not sleep until he saw Josiah Wolfe dead and buried.
CHAPTER 5
The entire town of Comanche came alive at the shots from Big Shirtâs rifle. Bright light erupted from the Tall Gate Saloon like it was morning and a gold rush had been feverishly announced. The buildings across the street blazed alive with light and activity. There was a rise of noise, chairs scooting furiously on wood floors, spurs jangling, horses reacting to the shots, prancing at their posts, snorting, tugging, nervous to flee.
Josiah moved slowly, hugging the side of the building, glad that he was wearing dark clothes, making him less of a targetâfor the moment. His mind was running like an unattended train as he pushed toward the light and commotion, toward the main street that cut through the middle of Comanche.
To say he was in between a rock and a hard place was an understatement. His choices were extremely limited. His hands were still bound with rope, and he had no weapon, no horse, and no idea where the hell he was.
Turning back to face Big Shirt was certain death. He had no choice but to make a run for itâsomehow, to somewhere.
He came to the end of the building, his back flush against the outside saloon wall, and stopped to consider what his next move would be.
An empty keg nearly blocked his exit from the compact alleyway, if it could be called that, but Josiah was certain he could jump it.
Another shot rang out behind him, and a bullet dug into the dirt a couple inches from the heel of his boot.
Josiah jumped but did not run out into the light. Not yet.
Another shot came. This time, an inch closer. The next one would be right on target if Josiah didnât move quickly.
Big Shirt was yelling at the top of his lungs in his native tongue, as he and his horse danced at the other end of the buildingâa raging silhouette born of wartime nightmares that ended in nothing but blood and death.
Without warning, Big Shirt jumped off the horse and disappeared briefly into the darkness. The shooting stopped, and Josiah saw Big Shirt return and lift Little Shirt to his feet, forgoing a shot at Josiah, instead offering aid to his brother.
There was only a matter of seconds to decide what to do next. Hurrying footsteps through the saloon grabbed his attention as precious seconds ticked away.
Three men pushed through the batwings of the Tall Gate Saloon, turning their heads up and down the street, searching for the cause of the ruckus, each with a gun in his hand, his fingers ready on the trigger.
It only took one short second for Josiah to determine that one of the men was Liam OâReilly.
Just as Josiah had thought, the outlaw was riding with the law, even though he wasnât wearing a badge. Not like in Waco. The other two men were unfamiliar to Josiah, but both of them were wearing silver stars on their chests.
If Josiah had been a praying man, he would have started a conversation with God right then and thereâor earlier, when heâd been taken captive by the Comanche. But the fact was that Josiah Wolfe wasnât much of a churchgoer or a praying man. As far as he was concerned his own fate rested squarely on his own shoulders.
Heâd never had the curiosity or the push toward church from his parents to decide one way or another whether the promise of eternal life was real or a tall tale. His folks had left that choice up to him. The war had almost made him a believer, his survival a testament to something other than luck . . . but even then, he couldnât bring himself to
One more deep breath and Josiah was up on his feet, pushing sideways between the two buildings and down the wall as quick as he could, fleeing the Comanche brothers.
Little Shirt was still on the ground, rolling around in agony, and Big Shirt was still on his horse, shooting into the darkness, shouting, swearing he would not sleep until he saw Josiah Wolfe dead and buried.
CHAPTER 5
The entire town of Comanche came alive at the shots from Big Shirtâs rifle. Bright light erupted from the Tall Gate Saloon like it was morning and a gold rush had been feverishly announced. The buildings across the street blazed alive with light and activity. There was a rise of noise, chairs scooting furiously on wood floors, spurs jangling, horses reacting to the shots, prancing at their posts, snorting, tugging, nervous to flee.
Josiah moved slowly, hugging the side of the building, glad that he was wearing dark clothes, making him less of a targetâfor the moment. His mind was running like an unattended train as he pushed toward the light and commotion, toward the main street that cut through the middle of Comanche.
To say he was in between a rock and a hard place was an understatement. His choices were extremely limited. His hands were still bound with rope, and he had no weapon, no horse, and no idea where the hell he was.
Turning back to face Big Shirt was certain death. He had no choice but to make a run for itâsomehow, to somewhere.
He came to the end of the building, his back flush against the outside saloon wall, and stopped to consider what his next move would be.
An empty keg nearly blocked his exit from the compact alleyway, if it could be called that, but Josiah was certain he could jump it.
Another shot rang out behind him, and a bullet dug into the dirt a couple inches from the heel of his boot.
Josiah jumped but did not run out into the light. Not yet.
Another shot came. This time, an inch closer. The next one would be right on target if Josiah didnât move quickly.
Big Shirt was yelling at the top of his lungs in his native tongue, as he and his horse danced at the other end of the buildingâa raging silhouette born of wartime nightmares that ended in nothing but blood and death.
Without warning, Big Shirt jumped off the horse and disappeared briefly into the darkness. The shooting stopped, and Josiah saw Big Shirt return and lift Little Shirt to his feet, forgoing a shot at Josiah, instead offering aid to his brother.
There was only a matter of seconds to decide what to do next. Hurrying footsteps through the saloon grabbed his attention as precious seconds ticked away.
Three men pushed through the batwings of the Tall Gate Saloon, turning their heads up and down the street, searching for the cause of the ruckus, each with a gun in his hand, his fingers ready on the trigger.
It only took one short second for Josiah to determine that one of the men was Liam OâReilly.
Just as Josiah had thought, the outlaw was riding with the law, even though he wasnât wearing a badge. Not like in Waco. The other two men were unfamiliar to Josiah, but both of them were wearing silver stars on their chests.
If Josiah had been a praying man, he would have started a conversation with God right then and thereâor earlier, when heâd been taken captive by the Comanche. But the fact was that Josiah Wolfe wasnât much of a churchgoer or a praying man. As far as he was concerned his own fate rested squarely on his own shoulders.
Heâd never had the curiosity or the push toward church from his parents to decide one way or another whether the promise of eternal life was real or a tall tale. His folks had left that choice up to him. The war had almost made him a believer, his survival a testament to something other than luck . . . but even then, he couldnât bring himself to
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