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that Josiah liked how Scrap acted sometimes, or agreed with the things that came unbidden out of the boy’s mouth.
    Josiah could barely hide the nervousness he felt, knowing Scrap was going to face a kind of pressure from the three men inside the small room like he’d never faced before.
    â€œWhat you want me to tell them, Wolfe?”
    â€œJust the truth, Elliot. You do that, and everything will turn out all right.”
    The door opened, and Captain McNelly glared at Josiah. “Ranger Elliot, we’re ready for you.”
    Josiah nodded at Scrap, telling him silently to go on.
    Scrap walked inside the room, pushing past McNelly as gently as he could.
    â€œRemember what Steele said, Wolfe, don’t plan on going anywhere until we’ve made our decision.”
    â€œI’ll be waiting at my home, Captain, you can count on that,” Josiah said, turning to walk down the long, empty hall, feeling more alone than he’d felt in a long time.
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    There was no easy way out of the building.
    Josiah could barely stand the idea of sneaking around like an outlaw, but he’d seen, firsthand, the viciousness and rage that a group of vigilantes could impose on any man of their choosing.
    When John Wesley Hardin killed a deputy, Charlie Webb, in Comanche, a gang had formed and dragged Hardin’s kin, who’d been put in the jail for safekeeping, out into the dark night and hung three of them unmercifully, their toes dangling near the ground, their death slow and painful. Hardin escaped unharmed, but the destruction he left behind still haunted the town to this day.
    Not that Josiah thought that he was in danger of being hanged, but the newspaper had been pretty hard on him. He was certain that the Widow Fikes was behind the stories, pushing for him to leave town, or be tried in a court of law for the killing of Pete Feders. She had promised to make Josiah’s life miserable, promised that he would never see Pearl Fikes again, or be allowed on the Fikes’ property. So far, the angry old woman had kept her promise.
    The Widow Fikes had wanted nothing more than for Pete to marry Pearl and rescue her from the financial trouble that had befallen the estate. She blamed Josiah for her losses, her troubles, and the rift that now existed between her and her daughter.
    It was difficult to take, knowing someone was out to destroy you. That was a position Josiah had never found himself in before. Hunted down, yes. The object of revenge, yes. But to experience the hate of a whole city, to be driven out of his own home, or at least to not feel comfortable, or welcome, well, that was a new experience, and not one that Josiah wanted to ever have again. He could become enraged if he let himself, but that would be a mistake, and he knew it. Losing control would result in terrible consequences, more than he was already standing in account for.
    Josiah was certainly not going to walk out the front door and into the crowd of chanting demonstrators. It was hard telling what would happen if he did.
    He made his way down the stairs to the back of the building.
    There was no gun on his hip. There was no need to carry a weapon into the capitol building, or at least he hadn’t thought so when he’d left the house.
    The only weapon he carried now was a small knife in his boot, not that it would do him any good in the event of an attack.
    The capitol building was quiet, with most people aware of what was happening. Still, once Josiah made it to the first floor, there were several people milling about in the hallway, waiting for something or someone to arrive.
    One man he recognized right away was the reporter for the Austin Statesman , Paul Hoagland.
    Hoagland, a short, mousy man, who wore a bowler, wireframe glasses, and usually had an unlit cigar dangling from his pale lips, saw Josiah about the same time Josiah saw him.
    â€œWolfe!” Hoagland shouted, running toward him, drawing a pad of paper