The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Not one minute into the ride, and Josiah had already broken one of the captain’s rules. He wasn’t quite sure what had caused it . . . other than that Charlie always threw him off center when he was in his company. Always.

  “Both of you just shut up,” the captain continued to rant. “Don’t make me regret my decision bringing you down here, Wolfe.”

  “Yes, sir. It was the right decision, sir.”

  Sheriff Patterson walked up to the captain and offered him the key to the metal bracelets that bound Charlie Langdon’s wrists. Fikes snatched the key from the man’s hand and stuffed it in his vest pocket.

  “Stop in the office the next time you ride into town, Fikes. I want to know you’re here.”

  The captain squinted his eyes, rolled his tongue in his mouth, and spit again. This time he hit his target dead-on. The sheriff’s boot dripped with spit. At some point the captain had stuffed a fresh plug of tobacco in his cheek, and he’d been working up a mouthful of stringy brown juice to release at just the right moment.

  Scrap had to restrain himself from laughing out loud.

  Without saying another word, Captain Fikes let out a yell that sounded like a whoop, then waited for Sam Willis and Vi McClure to get the escort party moving.

  Sheriff Patterson started cursing the captain and the Rangers as they began to move forward. Fikes ignored the sheriff, stared straight ahead like the man had never existed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Josiah was certain he saw a quick smile pass across Captain Hiram Fikes’s weathered face as they rode out of shouting distance, but he couldn’t be quite sure. The captain always celebrated his victories in subtle ways.

  Now that they were on the way, Fikes was focused on his prisoner, and there was no mistaking the tension that came from escorting a man as dangerous and loathsome as Charlie Langdon. The tussle with the sheriff was the last thing the captain would be worried about.

  Though Josiah was sure that Juan Carlos’s well-being wasn’t too far out of Fikes’s mind.

  CHAPTER 7

  San Antonio disappeared quickly behind Josiah and the other Rangers. It did not take the horses long to find a comfortable rhythm. Even the supply ponies and the heavy breather that Charlie was riding offered no restraint or stubbornness as they eased up a slight ridge on the trail.

  Josiah stared at the back of Charlie Langdon’s head for the longest time, trying to force himself not to remember all of the times he had ridden with the man in the past. Obviously, the bees were still buzzing in his stomach, and the last thing he wanted to do was show Charlie, or the captain, any fear . . . so he began whistling.

  Lily played the piano, and the only songs Josiah knew were a few waltzes and some church songs. He avoided the church songs, and as he whistled a waltz, a song of happier days, he could almost smell Lily’s skin, her neck resting on his shoulder at a social dance when they were courting. He would rather ride away the hours wrapped in the memory of the music Lily loved than the memories of the war as he rode behind a killer like Charlie Langdon. He was desperate to rid himself of all the wartime memories that had come surging back to him since seeing Charlie. He hadn’t expected that to happen.

  Captain Fikes looked at Josiah in surprise once he began whistling, then nodded, giving silent permission for him to continue on. It was nearly afternoon. The sun was already high in the sky, and even though it was still spring, mid-May, the air was hot and dry. There was hardly any breeze at all. The wind was silent and the sky vacant of clouds. Josiah’s whistling echoed off the boulders and cliff faces.

  All of the Rangers had sweat on their brows.

  The trail was reasonably wide, and the rocky landscape was mostly brown and dull, in comparison to the lushness around Tyler. East Texas and its vast pine forests, where everything was as green as green could be, seemed like it was a world away. There were splashes of color, though, like a spattering of bluebonnets along the trail, spring wildflowers that were starting to bloom into their prime.

  Farther off the trail, the bluebonnets gave way to a few yellow flowers—primroses, buttercups—with some verbena mixed in. The early season had to have been wet considering that some of the flowers were almost thriving—though struggling by comparison to the lush wildflowers around Josiah’s cabin and in the forests that surrounded his barn and pasture.

  Josiah decided that life in and around San Antonio must have been far more difficult than he’d realized, or cared to think about.

  He had never had the wanderlust, and he was thankful for that. Having a home to return to at the end of a long ride had always meant the world to him. Even now, he looked forward to returning to what was familiar. Pine trees. The smell of Ofelia’s menudo simmering in the pot—honeycomb tripe, chilies, calf’s foot, and some hominy, all joining together to warm a home that was once alive and throbbing with the giggles of three little girls. He really missed the familiar, but mostly Josiah was stricken with how much he longed to see his son.

  He gazed upward, whistling softly, and studied the stiff oak trees that reached to the sky with grizzled fingers and towered over the trail.

  The trees looked a hundred years old to Josiah. Just the sight of them made him a little melancholy. The big old trees had survived the sun, storms, rain, and probably fire, too. A few of them bore scars from lightning strikes, black wounds that looked like they would never heal. Josiah felt an odd kinship with the old trees.

  High in one of them, a cuckoo clucked away at the sun, or called for a mate, Josiah wasn’t sure. Most every other creature had taken refuge from the heat of the day.

  Hunting was done in the early morning, late evening, or at night. Killing in the bright heat of the day was either out of necessity or for pleasure. Anything with any sense, or knowledge of the natural way of things, was fast asleep under a rock or some well-sought-out shade.

  More than a few times, out of the corner of his eye Josiah thought he saw shadows moving. But, when he focused his sight, there was nothing to be seen in the thickets or on the hilltops except a stand of trees or the occasional hawk soaring high in the sky, casting a shadow downward—like a harbinger of some foreboding darkness to come, his cry carrying effortlessly in the dry air for miles.

  Josiah’s imagination was playing tricks on him again. He thought his awareness was reasonably keen, but he still felt uncertain of most everything he saw or thought about doing. His senses weren’t as sharp as they had been on the battlefield, where day after day living and dying hinged on killing and not being killed.

  It would take a long time to get back to that place, that process of consideration where physical survival was the only thing that mattered. Even with all that had happened in San Antonio, especially at the Menger with Burly Smith, he still didn’t feel threatened, or fully awake to what was happening around him.

  Josiah wasn’t sure if he could ever regain the skill he’d possessed as a young soldier. Maybe that was something to consider about becoming a Ranger at this age, he thought to himself. Maybe he could never recapture the enthusiasm that was so apparent in Scrap Elliot’s every word and deed.

  Either way, now was not the time to judge himself as inept. He was far from that—he just wasn’t as sharp as he used to be. Time had taken his thoughts and skills prisoner, and he had to figure out how to release them, free them from the past.

  He knew one thing to be true if nothing else, though: Charlie Langdon was being too quiet, too compliant.

  Something was up, he was sure of it.

  Leaving the jail had been too easy.

  The crowds had parted and watched solemnly. Not once did anyone try to stop the escort from leaving town. It seemed like the entire population of San Antonio was glad to see Charlie and the Rangers go.

  Captain Fikes brought the party to a stop about three hours after leaving San Antonio.

  Josiah stopped whistling.

  They had come down an easy sloped hill and gathered in a clearing, their formation around Charlie still reasonably
tight.

  There were hills on all sides of them—but the hills were distant, too distant for some unseen shooter, outlaw or Indian, to attack from and take cover in.

  The trail was wide, and in the mud there were wheel ruts that ran into and out of a slow-running stream. At some point in history, the spot had sported a population of settlers. There were a few foundations alongside the trail, cracked slabs of stone lying about haphazardly and crumbling remnants of buildings or houses that looked like giant footprints. It had not been a big town, only three or four buildings at the most, probably a stagecoach stop at some point, but now all of the buildings were gone—the wood rotted, stolen, or burned by travelers in need of a nighttime fire.

  Josiah listened and looked around, trying to figure out if there was a railroad anywhere close, trying to solidify his bearings. That’s what had happened to his town, Seerville—the railroad hadn’t come close enough to keep it alive—but that didn’t appear to be the case here. There was no railroad in San Antonio or this part of South Texas yet, and from what Josiah understood, it would be a few more years, or longer, before that life-changing event occurred.

  Whatever the cause, the town was gone, just a memory. And the place made Josiah uneasy, because there were plenty of places for cover close-up.

  Across the stream, through a healthy grove of pecan trees, sat a cemetery. The weeds around the grave markers were already tall. A few yucca plant spikes reached to the sun, not yet in bloom. It was no surprise that the cemetery was in disrepair, a neglected garden of crosses and broken-down picket fencing used to keep the animals and any other unwelcome creatures out. The fencing had been trampled. Some of the grave markers had toppled over a long time ago.

  “Let’s water the horses, men,” the captain said, as he dismounted from Fat Susie.

  “Man ought to be able to relieve himself,” Charlie Langdon muttered.

  Captain Fikes stalked over to Charlie’s horse and glared up at the man, shaking a finger as he yelled, “You obviously don’t understand the rules here, mister. You speak when you’re spoken to. You piss when I say you can piss. I don’t want to hear another word from you until I tell you to dismount—and when that happens, there will be six guns pointed at that empty head of yours. So don’t go thinking we’re a bunch of idiots. Do I make myself clear?”

  Scrap Elliot, who had been holding the rope on Charlie’s horse throughout the trip from San Antonio, jumped off his own horse, placing himself directly between Charlie and the captain.

  Josiah watched Charlie closely, and saw his lip twitch just slightly at the left corner of his hard, pursed mouth. Josiah started to warn the captain, because he knew something was coming, but it was too late.

  Charlie kicked his right foot up as hard as he could and caught Scrap Elliot just under the chin.

  “Son of a bitch!” Scrap yelled as he flipped backward, nearly knocking Captain Fikes to the ground.

  Charlie Langdon laughed, but stopped suddenly midway through his guffaw.

  In one swift motion, Pete Feders had pulled the hammer on his Colt and stuck the barrel in Charlie’s ear. “You’d do best to shut up and be apologetic to the captain and Ranger Elliot, Mr. Langdon. I’d hate for your ride to end before you got a chance to relieve yourself.”

  The smile fell from Charlie’s face like a curtain falling on a fancy theater show. “I ain’t apologizing to no one. I’ve been sitting here mindin’ my own business for miles. Seems to me this young feller wasn’t paying attention.”

  Peter Feders pushed the gun harder against Charlie’s ear. “I said apologize.”

  “That’ll be enough, Sergeant Feders.” The captain pulled Scrap to his feet, and the young Ranger rubbed his jaw furiously.

  Josiah had jumped off Clipper, and in a matter of seconds had the Sharps carbine aimed squarely at Charlie’s head.

  Willis and McClure had their guns drawn on the prisoner, as well. One false move, and Charlie Langdon would meet his maker, without the pleasure of a trial or a crowd at the hanging. He’d be riddled with enough bullet holes for plenty of daylight to shine though on a gloomy day.

  There was still a twitch in Charlie’s lip that Josiah could see. No one else seemed to notice.

  “I’d stand away from the coward, Scrap. And Pete, watch his hands,” Josiah said, coming up alongside the captain.

  “Do as he says, Sergeant,” Fikes ordered.

  There had not been any rank mentioned among the six Rangers until that moment. Josiah wasn’t surprised—the Rangers worked in a loose fashion, not as defined militarily as the Brigade—but there was definitely rank among the members.

  Pete Feders carried himself like a soldier, so it came as no surprise to Josiah that he had been deemed a leader.

  It did surprise him, though, that the captain had not made them all aware of the chain of command. So Josiah was glad to see the captain wasn’t offended by his observations about Charlie’s possible actions.

  “Wolfe knows this man better than any of us. You’d do well to heed his advice,” the captain said.

  “Josiah Wolfe doesn’t know a damn thing about me,” Charlie said.

  “Do I need to strap you to a tree and whip you with a pistol, Langdon?” the captain snapped. “You don’t speak until you are spoken to. I’m not going to repeat myself again.”

  Charlie Langdon drew in a deep breath and glared at Josiah. His eyes were black and cold. A look Josiah had seen more than once.

  “Get him down,” Fikes said to Willis and McClure. Then he turned to Scrap. “You all right, boy?”

  Scrap nodded his head yes. “Fine, Captain. I’m just fine.” He wiped a stream of blood from the corner of his mouth.

  Pete Feders pulled his Colt back as Charlie slid off his horse into the confined custody of Willis and McClure. Neither man looked too happy about the prospect of leading Charlie off the trail to relieve himself, but Josiah wasn’t going to volunteer for that duty. He was going to be ready with the Sharps, and not take his eyes off Charlie Langdon for a second.

  Scrap Elliot had wandered over to the stream and started rinsing out his mouth, muttering curse words under his breath.

  “I’ll need you to be a sergeant as well, Wolfe, but Feders has a little more recent time by my side. He was with me when he caught up with Charlie there. He’s my first sergeant, but I need you to fall into step right behind him.”

  “I understand.”

  “McClure and Willis know how to do their jobs. Once we get this prisoner delivered, then move on to the Red River camp, I’m hoping the rest of the company’ll be mustered. Be plenty of room for a man with your fighting experience to advance if you so desire. I think the future is bright for the Rangers now that Governor Coke has taken office. And I can’t imagine a better man than Jones to lead us all. We’ll all be better off serving under a man like him.”

  “I appreciate your confidence, Captain.” Josiah did not look the captain in the eye as was his normal manner. His gaze was fixed on Charlie and the two Rangers. They were about ten yards off the trail. A hawk screeched overhead, and a chill ran down Josiah’s spine. “I sure don’t trust him,” he added, almost in a whisper.

  “Just keep your head about you. Holler if you see something we don’t. You seem to have an eye for his trickery.”

  “I’ve seen Charlie Langdon kill more men than I can rightly count, Captain. And most of them didn’t see a thing coming their way until it was too late.”

  Pete Feders had remained mounted on his horse. His attention was drawn behind them—something the captain and Josiah noticed right away.

  The sound of horses running full-out reached their ears, a low thunder growing louder, and a plume of dust became visible on the horizon, heading directly toward them.

  Charlie Langdon had noticed, too. A slow smile crossed his face, then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

  CHAPTER 8

  By the time the first rider became fully visible, Willis and McClure had secured Charlie Lan
gdon back up on his horse.

  All six Rangers surrounded their charge, guns at the ready.

  Josiah and the captain had agreed that the coming horsemen were most likely members of a gang sent to set Charlie free. There was no way that was going to happen—not without a fight, anyway. There was not a man among them, as far as Josiah could tell, who would not lay down his life to protect the people of Texas, and save them from one more vengeful ride of a criminal who should have been jailed, or hanged, a long time ago.

  Josiah wasn’t thrilled at the idea of taking a bullet because of Charlie Langdon, but he’d damn well take a bullet for Captain Hiram Fikes. The last man who’d given him a second chance, who’d shown any sign of faith or belief in Josiah like the captain had, was his father—and that was so long ago, just after his return from the war, he had nearly forgotten the simple act of encouragement. It was the day his father signed over the deed to the small farm just outside Seerville.

  The approaching horses were louder now, a storm trying to gain its strength. It was surprising to Josiah that the gang would approach in such a brash manner—in broad daylight, without the aid of any cover. Though it was a tactic that seemed much in line with Charlie Langdon’s talent in planning attacks.

  Scrap Elliot seemed to be the only one who was outwardly nervous about the visit from the unknown riders.

  He couldn’t quite keep his horse from fidgeting back and forth like she was getting ready to run a race. The horse was a young blue roan mare Scrap called Missy, and she looked like she was about three hands too tall for the kid.

  That’s what Josiah considered Scrap, a kid, and there had been moments when he wanted to ask the captain why he’d brought Elliot on as a Ranger, but he never got around to it, never really figured it was any of his business. He was just curious, because so far the only quality that Scrap Elliot exhibited was an unyielding enthusiasm for clumsiness and the trouble that always seemed to follow.