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

confused—but nonetheless aware of the threat coming his way.
    Silence filled the barn.
    Sweat dripped from the tip of Josiah’s nose to the top of his lip. He tasted his own salt, feared for his own life, and pressed his finger tighter on the trigger—just as the light pulled back and disappeared.
    The barn went black.
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    Sometime in the middle of the night, Josiah slowly stirred then started awake, suddenly aware of the passage of time.
    The riders had gone on, and the torch had vanished. Though Josiah was not sure if he had lost consciousness before or after the torch had come and gone.
    It didn’t matter; at the moment, he seemed to be safe. Not to mention alive and armed, still equipped with the Spencer and five cartridges to protect himself with. That was more currency than he had had since first catching the trail of Big Shirt—which now seemed as much a trick as the attack on Lost Valley by Lone Wolf in July. Still, he didn’t know for sure that he, Scrap, and Red had been lured to the cropping of rocks by Big Shirt and Little Shirt. Or if the Indians’ true cause all along had been to take Josiah hostage.
    It was the first time that he’d had the strength and clarity of thought to question the events of the day.
    Not that he was healed. But the bleeding in his leg had stopped, congealed as he slept. It was apparently just a flesh wound, though at the time the bullet hit him, it had felt like a full-on shot. He couldn’t be sure that he was right now, and he would have to wait until daylight to make sure, but he thought he knew the difference between a graze and a direct hit, and he was almost certain that he didn’t have lead lodged in the muscle or next to the bone.
    He was hungry, thirsty, and weak, but the fear of death—at least impending death and doom—seemed to have passed.
    Josiah was reasonably certain at that moment that he was going to live to see another day. Then the questions crept back into his mind as he lay there, still afraid to move in the solid darkness, unsure of where he was or what was next.
    If it had been Big and Little Shirt’s intention, or mission, to capture him because he had a reward on his head—most likely posted and sworn out by Liam O’Reilly—then why did the Comanche shoot Red Overmeyer? Kill him like a trapped animal, tied to the tree . . . and leave Scrap there alive?
    At least that was the way it had appeared.
    The last time Josiah had seen Scrap, the boy’s eyes were filled with fright, and he was tied to the tree, struggling to escape with Red behind him, his head half blown off.
    Not much of it made any sense at the moment to Josiah.
    Suddenly he was an outlaw being pursued by an outlaw—for what cause? A price on his head for what crime? He was a Texas Ranger, damn it, not some low-life gunslinger who killed for the pleasure or power of it.
    How did a simple expedition to scout out Indian cattle rustlers turn into a trail of confusion, leading to the death of a good, solid Ranger like Red Overmeyer?
    Josiah exhaled. Just thinking about all of it made him weak, and he decided that there was no place to go at the moment. What he needed most was more rest. Hopefully, there would be plenty of time to get his answers once the sun broke over the horizon.
    The first question: Was Scrap Elliot still alive?
    If he could get free of the town of Comanche, then Josiah knew he had no choice but to head straight back to that tree and see what had become of Scrap—and Red.

CHAPTER 8

    Nobody likes to wake up with a gun barrel firmly lodged against their lips.
    â€œYou move one muscle, mister, and I’ll blow your fool head off.”
    Josiah flickered his eyes open.
    His vision was blurry, and he was weak—but not stupid. He restrained himself. He was not going to move an inch, but instead, he would do as he was told, and not search out the Spencer that had fallen from his grip sometime during