The Gila Wars by Larry D. Sweazy Page A

offering only the threat of certain danger and the pain of an undeclared war. Somehow, somewhere, and in some time, Scrap Elliot had become a fine soldier, a warrior. But that didn’t mean the boy didn’t have doubts or fears.
    Every man did
, Josiah thought,
every man did
. “Go on then,” he said. “You’re right. I can look after myself.”
    â€œI never asked your permission, Wolfe. I know you’re my sergeant and all, but I figured with you down on your back, I had to make my decisions.”
    â€œBe safe,” Josiah said. “I’ll be looking forward to your return.”
    Scrap nodded, spun around, grabbed up his duster, and disappeared through the door, rushing out to meet the darkness that awaited him, eagerly and with anticipation.

CHAPTER 7

    Josiah nodded off after Scrap left the room, only to be awakened some time later by the comforting smell of food. The curtains were pulled closed on the only window in the room, and no light burned around the edges, signaling that morning had not come. Darkness of night still prevailed. The same candle burned weakly; it was about half the size it had been when Scrap left the room.
    A sudden, unmistakable burst of pain erupted on the side of Josiah’s face, reminding him that he had been shot, had caught some buckshot from an uncertain blast of a scattergun. His vision widened, and instinctively he reached to his cheek to soothe the pain he felt.
    A warm hand intercepted his. “No, no, señor, please, you’ll hurt yourself.” It was a soft female voice.
    Josiah pulled his hand away and angled his face upward, catching the first sight of the girl he assumed had shot him by mistake. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her in the cantina. There was no way to tell then if the shooter had been a man or a woman; everything had happened so quickly.
    Even now he could not see the girl clearly. The room was full of shadows, and his movement reaching for the pain had caused the candle to dance, making the light even more unstable. Still, the girl was older than he’d expected. She was a young woman, maybe Scrap’s age, in her early twenties, maybe older, not really a girl at all. She had brown skin, saucer plate brown eyes, and neatly combed black hair swept back out of her face, exposing a smooth canvas of concern and caring.
    â€œI am so sorry, Señor Wolfe. I did not mean to harm you. And now you are to be scarred from my carelessness. Can you ever forgive me?”
    â€œI might be dead if you hadn’t walked in when you did.”
    The girl shook her head no. “Señor Elliot put an end to the attack. I am sure he would have conquered the
gringos
without my interference. You, too, from what I understand, are quite capable of protecting yourself.” She pulled back then, standing at the side of his bed nervously.
    â€œCall me Josiah.” He took a deep breath at the full sight of the girl. She wore a loose-fitting blouse over a long skirt, but even in the faded light, it was easy to see that she was shapely, and her face sweet, like a Spanish angel painted on the ceilings of some of the missions Josiah had been in.
    â€œBut, Señor . . .”
    â€œ. . . I insist.”
    â€œAs you wish.”
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    â€œFrancesca. Francesca Soto.”
    â€œThat’s a fine name.”
    Silence lingered between them for a long moment. Francesca’s English was easy to understand, almost like it was her true language, even though there was still a hint of Mexican from her tongue. It must have been one of the reasons why Scrap was so comfortable in leaving him, that and the need to catch up with the third man.
    â€œ
Sí
, it is my mother’s name. She died when I was born. It is all I have of her.” A veil of sadness fell over Francesca’s face, then disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself.
    Grief was unmistakable to Josiah, his own