The Badger's Revenge Read Online Free PDF Page B

mouth shut, and there were other times when the kid just plain got on his last nerve. Scrap was moody and unpredictable, traits he needed to shed if he was going to be a good Ranger—if he got the chance, if he survived.
    As they rounded the tree, Red Overmeyer made eye contact with Josiah.
    Unlike Scrap, Overmeyer did not struggle, did not try to scream through his gag. Instead he looked away from Josiah, then lowered his head to the ground, like he had already surrendered to a predestined fate.
    In a swift and sudden pull of the trigger, Little Shirt fired the carbine, his aim perfect.
    Red Overmeyer’s head slammed back against the tree in an explosion of blood and bone. The only scream to rise into the air came from both Indians in a victorious cheer. Scrap’s scream was frozen in his throat, muffled by the kerchief stuffed in his mouth and his own fear.
    Josiah jumped at the explosion, expecting it but shocked and scared by it nonetheless. He feared Scrap was next, then his turn, too—but it did not escape Josiah’s attention that Red had just been shot by a bullet from his own rifle.
    The three circled the tree again. Big Shirt fired his rifle this time, hitting Red directly in the heart. If there was any chance that Overmeyer was suffering, that thought came to a quick end. He was dead, though his eyes were wide open, fixated on the ground, unfazed by the cascading blood from the first shot.
    With that, the two Comanche brought all three horses nose to nose, putting Josiah and the angry chestnut mare even more tightly in between them, the reins of Josiah’s horse secure in Big Shirt’s hand.
    They pushed around the tree again in a fast circle, without firing another shot, then headed south, leaving Scrap Elliot in a cloud of dust, blood, and flies that already smelled opportunity, the hoots and hollers of the Indians rising to the clouds, along with Red Overmeyer’s soul. If a man believed in such a thing.

CHAPTER 3

    A solid blanket of gray clouds had pushed its way east to reveal the promise of a beaming, late autumn sun and a pure cloudless sky. There was no weather, or any other apparent obstacle, that would slow the unlikely trio down.
    Big Shirt said they were going to Hell for a visit.
    As far as Josiah was concerned, there was no turning back now. Elliot would have to fend for himself, find his way out of the bindings and off the tree—or die there from starvation, if Josiah couldn’t escape and turn back to free his fellow Ranger.
    At the moment, there were some questions to be answered, and the only Hell that Josiah could conceive of was the Hell that Big Shirt and Little Shirt were going to pay at the first opportunity he could deliver it.
    The method of delivery was immaterial. A rock, a fist, a kick with a hard boot heel to the throat, crushing the Adam’s apple of either of his captors. He liked the thought of them suffering, dying a slow death, like what was promised him and delivered to Red Overmeyer. It would be interesting to see who the promise came to first.
    Josiah was not encouraged by the clear sky.
    The coming of a near perfect day offered little hope that everything was going to be all right, that it would work out—his life didn’t work like that. A storm would provide more opportunity for escape. As it was, Josiah’s blood ran hot, and his hands, though still bound tightly, ached to get a hold of a gun. But all he could do was ride the angry chestnut mare and spit at Little Shirt.
    Little Shirt pulled a pistol from a holster belted on his side, Josiah’s .45-caliber Colt, his Peacemaker, and pointed it at him in one swift, angry pull. “Do that again, Ranger, and I’ll kill you.”
    â€œWhat’s stopping you?” Josiah spit again, this time hitting his target right between the eyes.
    Josiah had decided he wasn’t going to wait to get to Hell. He was already there.
    Little Shirt was either going to kill him