Free The Gila Wars by Larry D. Sweazy

Francesca’s father brought him a plate of eggs. He was a tall, thin man. His brown skin was lighter than normal, not quite white, more the color of a woven basket, but not as dark and velvety as Francesca’s skin. His face was gaunt, wrinkled, with sunken cheeks, and his chestnut eyes flittered about constantly, looking around like a nervous bird’s. He had yet to look Josiah directly in the eye.
    â€œThank you,” Josiah said.
Gracias
would have been more appropriate, but speaking another language had always been difficult for Josiah. More to the truth, he was stubborn about talking in the Mexican tongue, refused to on most accounts, unless he absolutely had to. Unless he was undercover as a spy—and that was not the case here, since Scrap had told of their real identities—and even then it was difficult. He was an Anglo. And Anglos spoke Texan, at least his generation of Anglos. His son, Lyle, spoke Mexican more fluently at four years old than Josiah ever would. It was a conflict that was easier to ignore than confront.
    â€œ
De nada
. You’re welcome, Señor Wolfe,” the man said.
    A moment of panic ran through Josiah’s veins. He already felt weak, but now he felt weaker. Even though Scrap trusted the pair of Mexicans to tell them the truth, Josiah wasn’t sure he could trust them both. He had no idea if the father was really a good man. Two Rangers killing two of Cortina’s men in a cantina in Arroyo was too good a story not to tell. And with Scrap off chasing one of Cortina’s men, Josiah was left to look after himself, weakened by the fight and unsure of everything.
    Francesca’s father nodded, turned, and started to hurry away.
    â€œWait,” Josiah said. “Please, what is your name? You know my name. I should know yours.”
    The man stopped and looked to the ground. “Adolfo. Adolfo Soto.”
    â€œThat is a good name.”
    â€œIt means noble wolf, but I am just a poor man with a talent for pouring beer and nothing else of value. The Kings are Anglo, owners of more land than I can imagine, noble like the lions who stalk from a distance. Do you know the Kings, señor?”
    Josiah flinched at the similarity between his name and the English translation of Adolfo’s, but he said nothing to acknowledge it. “No, I don’t know any of them. They’re a good family, though, undeserving of the thieving that Cortina inflicts on them and their ranch.” He hesitated, still unsure if he should fully expose his honest self. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, and I appreciate the hospitality.”
    â€œYou are hurt, señor. What is a man to do?” Adolfo unconsciously cocked his head over his shoulder, to the right.
    Josiah was sitting at a simple table made of mesquite. The roof protected him from the direct sun, and he sat butted up next to the wall, as much in the shadows as possible. He silently followed Adolfo’s nod and caught sight of a baked white mission half a block down the street, sitting openly in a field of hard dirt, all by itself, a simple wood cross rising upward from its narrow and short bell tower. The land was flat behind it, stretching out to meet the ocean, too far in the distance to be heard; but it could still be tasted. Salt touched his tongue lightly.
    The mission was weathered, streaked with water stains, just like the windowsill in the room he had woken up in. There was a crucifix in the room, but Josiah had paid it no mind, had barely noticed it, thought nothing of its placement. Crosses were as plentiful as roaches in this part of Texas.
    Josiah’s own religious beliefs were nonexistent. His faith was in the moment, in the worry about what lay ahead, as long as he walked on this earth. Beyond that, there was only darkness and the unknown. Death was walking into the night, and never walking out of it.
    When Lily, his wife, lay dying, she’d asked for the preacher to come to her