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A fist pounded against the door, jolting them awake.

The voice that followed was familiar but tense. “Zeke, it’s Frank. Get up. Something’s happened.”

Ezekiel Cobb got up from his bed and put on his boots. His wife, Amanda, soothed their youngest child back to sleep. His oldest son, Nate, was starting to put his boots on. “Stay with your mother,” he said.

Zeke opened the door and peered out at the man on his threshold. Frank Muller was their friend and neighbor. He stood with his hands on his waist and Zeke noticed a gun belt. Behind Frank were two horses, both saddled. “Hate to wake you up, Zeke, but there’s nothing for it. Marshal wants men for a posse. There’s been a killing.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Trautmann’s daughter, Katarina. They found her out by the river.”

Zeke rubbed his face and eyes with a rough palm. He blinked, eyes readjusting to the night. “Ok. Give me a minute. Wait out here so the children don’t wake.” He walked back inside. Amanda and Nate began to ask questions simultaneously, and Zeke held up a hand. “I don’t know anything more than what you heard. Nate, stay with your mother and help her with the chores. I should be back in the morning but if not you know what work needs doing in the south pasture.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zeke kissed his wife and dressed. From a trunk, he pulled out a gun belt with an 1860 Colt, two loaded spare cylinders, and a knife, and fastened it around his hip. He put on his jacket and picked up his gray slouch hat with the golden acorns of an enlisted cavalryman, a remnant from his time in the army, and walked out into the night.

The two men took the road leading into the sleeping town of Castroville, Texas. Settled by Alsatians during the days of the empresarios, Castro’s colony had become a crossroads for trade for the Confederacy down into Mexico. It had been growing fast as a result. After a quarter of an hour, the two men had made it to town. They saw lanterns and torches ahead. They entered the town square passing by the Catholic church and joined a group of men on horses.

A round man with soft jowls and a red face greeted them. He wore a marshal’s badge. “Gentleman. Thank you for coming,” Charles Wenger, Castroville’s town marshal, said with a slight Germanic accent. He had a habit of pronouncing a w as a v. The night was cool but Wenger wiped sweat from his face with a yellowed handkerchief and then called out to the men to quiet down. “Thank you all for answering my summons at this time of night. There has been a murder. Gus Trautmann’s daughter, Katarina, vas found dead down by the Medina.”

“Who found her Charlie?” a man asked.

“Frau Sturm, from the school. She vas hunting for some sort of cactus flower and stumbled upon Miss Trautmann’s body.”

The men were to patrol the river and the town until morning. Wenger assigned sections, and Frank Muller and Ezekiel Cobb got the one near the northwestern bend of the river, not far from where Katarina was found. It was only a few hundred yards from the square. The marshal went with them to point out where her body lay, so they wouldn’t accidentally disturb it before the undertaker got there.

None of the men spoke. For Frank and Zeke, it was a heavy loss for their friend, Gus Trautmann. Katarina was lovely and adored by all. She had the best singing voice in the Zion-Lutheran church and was never without a partner at the dances, or so Zeke had been told upon his return from the war a few months back.

They crossed to the northern bank of the Medina. Wenger pointed a finger to a spot between two cypress trees. “There she is.” His voice was grim. The cypress roots curved into the river, forming a shelf where one might sit—but tonight it cradled only death. On the shelf was a girl.

Ezekiel Cobb wanted to look away from the bloody figure on the bank but didn’t. He was through with finding trouble, yet trouble seemed to follow him. The girl was a tangled mess of hair and torn clothes. She was pale, and there was a large wet spot where she lay, blood slicking the river bank.

“Damn…”

Wenger took a handkerchief out of his waistcoat and wiped his sweaty face again and then nearly slipped on the mud. Ezekiel breathed out in irritation at the man’s clumsiness around the dead girl but didn’t say anything.

“Someone is going to have to tell her father,” the marshal said, before looking up at Ezekiel and Frank.

They returned his gaze, steady. “Yes sir,” Frank said.

The marshal kept looking at the other two men, expectant for a volunteer. Neither did. “One of you,” he added.

Frank looked at Cobb who was leaning against a tree with his thumbs in his belt. “Nope,” he said.

“Now listen here, Zeke. I have to notify the sheriff in Hondo, get the undertaker, and prepare a posse.”

Cobb sighed. His friends called him Zeke. Wenger was not included on that list. “Yes, marshal. You have all that to do. You also have to tell Gus Trautmann that you found Katarina. We will handle the undertaker, and send a rider to the sheriff. But we aren’t responsible for telling Trautmann. You are.”

The marshal puffed up, glaring at Cobb for his stubbornness. But Cobb continued leaning against a tree, unconcerned about the marshal’s problems. He thinks he is better than everyone, Wenger thought to himself. But eventually, he deflated. “Fine.”

“How’d she die, Charlie?” Frank asked, breaking the tension.

“From vhat ve could tell by lantern light, it looked like she vas strangled. Maybe hit too,” Wenger said.

Cobb stepped closer to look at the body. There were red marks on the girl’s neck, and a bloody gash on her temple. He looked around and saw a large river rock the size of a grapefruit lying nearby with blood on it. “Reckon with this,” he said, pointing. 

Wenger looked at Zeke with annoyance for having missed that.

“What was she doing out here?” Ezekiel asked.

“Ve don’t know yet,” Wenger said.

“Who would do something like this?” Frank mused allowed.

“Ve already think ve know who did it,” Wenger replied.

“Who?”

Wenger had gotten back on his horse and shifted in his saddle. He grunted. “That’s not your concern. Stick to patrolling,” Wenger said. He rode off before Zeke or Frank could reply. They watched him recross the river.

Frank looked at Zeke. “He always been like that for as long as I can remember.”

Zeke rolled his eyes and dismounted, tying his horse around some brush in a copse a little ways off from the spot where the girl had been found. He lifted a lantern off the saddle horn. “I want to look around a little,” he said. Frank nodded and dismounted too.

They hunched over, bending towards the ground while holding up the lanterns to examine the ground. Zeke saw several sets of small footprints in the dirt, and a scuffed-over piece of ground that appeared to have been wet, but now drying. Zeke leaned down and touched the spot, rubbing the moistened dirt between his fingers. He could smell iron.

“You do any tracking in the war?” Frank asked.

“Nope. We had scouts for that,” Ezekiel said. “I picked up a thing or two, though. Did you see that wet spot over by the river?”

Frank shook his head no and went to look. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” he said.

“Smell it,” Zeke said.

Frank raised an eyebrow and then leaned down so his nose was close to the dirt. “Smells like a penny. Blood?”

“I think so,” Zeke said.

After looking around the area, they rode the river until morning, making occasional contact with the other patrols. Before long it was morning, and as the sky began to go grey, Zeke and Frank rode back to the square. As they approached they heard shouting. They got closer and saw Marshal Wenger had a young man, nearly a boy, by the arm. In the other hand was a revolver, pointed at their friend Ernest Brauer. The boy was Theodore, his 15-year-old son. With a shout Zeke and Frank spurred their horses and called out. Wenger exchanged words with Ernest, who shoved Wenger. The marshal brought the barrel of the pistol down on the man’s head. Ernest collapsed to his knees, and Wenger pulled the boy loose and towards the jail.

Ezekiel rode in hot and positioned his horse between the jail and Wenger. He dismounted with a jump and landed into Wenger, knocking him down.

Wenger cried out from the ground. “That vas uncalled for, Cobb!”

“No more than pistol-whipping a man for protecting his son!” Cobb shot back, fists balled up at his sides. He stood over Wenger but let him stand back up.

The marshal dusted off his pants, glaring at Cobb. “If you don’t get out of my vay right now, I’ll arrest you.”

Cobb didn’t move. Frank joined him at his side, hand hovering near the handles of his wheelgun. “Then arrest me,” Cobb said. Then he added, “Why Teddy? What evidence do you have against this boy?”

Wenger spat on the ground and pushed his way past Cobb, dragging the boy behind him. “That’s none of your damned business. This is a legal arrest. Now get out of here.”

Zeke didn’t know if it was a lawful arrest or not, but a duly elected badge said so. He didn’t move though, and made Wenger step around him. Zeke and Frank helped their friend up. Feeling helpless, the three men watched as the marshal took Ernest’s oldest boy into custody.

“Frank, I reckon you better ride over to Hondo and get the sheriff.”

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This is part one of “Blood on the Medina.” Click here to read the next part. If you like these free stories, please subscribe. If you REALLY liked them, please consider leaving me a tip by purchasing it on Kindle for .99 (the cost for 1/3 of a cup of coffee).