The Badger's Revenge by Larry D. Sweazy Page A

ask an invisible force for help as so many of his brethren soldiers had done. But it was his wife Lily’s death that had put the final hard glaze on his heart and shut out any possibility of belief in an all-knowing, all-loving and -forgiving God who had time to come to his side when Josiah needed help.
    As his wife and three daughters lay dying from the fevers, the preacher man from Tyler wouldn’t come out to the cabin, though Lily had requested his presence—since she was a believer—to pray them into Heaven, for fear of contracting the sickness himself. Lily was heartbroken and lapsed into a forever sleep, then died, with the certain fear she was on her way to Hell because she had not been blessed by a man of God.
    There was no forgiving that man as far as Josiah was concerned.
    Big Shirt fired another shot blindly into the alley. This time the bullet grazed Josiah’s calf.
    His first instinct was to scream out, but Josiah put his wrist up to his mouth to shield any sound of breathing that might clue O’Reilly and his men in to the fact that he was only a few feet away from them.
    He restrained himself as much as he could, bit into the cloth of his shirt, trying his best not to scream out, not to make any noise at all.
    Big Shirt called out again, this time for help, clearly in English.
    â€œDamn it, they’ve let loose of Wolfe.” There was no mistaking the Irish brogue, no mistaking Liam O’Reilly’s angry voice. “Stay here, Clarmont, just in case he comes up this way.”
    The man nodded in agreement, then O’Reilly and the other man turned and disappeared back into the saloon.
    Josiah assumed the two were hustling to the back of the saloon to help Big Shirt. It looked like it would be a one-on-one fight, if it came to that, with the remaining man, Clarmont.
    Josiah wanted to avoid fighting the man at all costs. The pain in his leg was worsening, and his pant leg was wet with blood. The air smelled of gunpowder and death, an all too familiar odor that Josiah hoped never to become immune to. But it was his blood he smelled, and the pain was excruciating.
    Without any further hesitation, Josiah picked up a rock and chucked it as hard as he could down the boardwalk, opposite the entrance into the Tall Gate.
    He quickly scurried to the ground and found another rock that fit neatly into the palm of his hand, a crude weapon, but a weapon nonetheless, which might help even the stakes if he did have to take on Clarmont in a hand-to-hand fight.
    The rock clunked on the hard, dry wood, capturing the man’s attention.
    â€œHey,” Clarmont yelled out. “Who is that?” He walked right by Josiah, who had ducked back behind the keg.
    Behind him, Josiah could hear yelling—Irish and Comanche, a mix of anger on two foreign tongues that needed no translator to understand.
    Clarmont had his back to Josiah, went about ten feet past him, then he stopped.
    It was now or never, so Josiah mustered all the energy he had, kept his mouth clamped so he wouldn’t cry out in pain, jumped over the boardwalk, and took off straight across the street—hoping like hell he could disappear into the shadows before O’Reilly’s man was able to get a shot off at him.
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    The door to the Darcy Hotel was ajar, and Josiah pushed it open without slowing his run from across the street.
    Somewhere behind him, a shot was fired, and Clarmont yelled for him to stop, but Josiah didn’t stop running, he just kept on pushing, the burning pain in his leg not slowing him down, hanging on to the rock like it was a brandnew Peacemaker made out of solid gold.
    A tall woman dressed in the latest fashions gasped and pulled her daughter close to her, most assuredly assuming that Josiah was an outlaw on the run, as he ran into the hotel lobby.
    The woman had perfect blond hair, suddenly reminding Josiah of Pearl Fikes. Pearl was the daughter of the late Captain Fikes, and the