The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Josiah tried to remember back to that night, to walking into the Silver Dollar. The captain was at a table with three other men. Two of them turned out to be Willis and McClure. The other man, the stranger, was never named. If he was, Josiah couldn’t remember—any more than he could remember anything about the man’s features. The man was a shadow in his memory, and Josiah had to wonder now if that had been the man’s intent.

  At the time, Josiah had just assumed the stranger was another new Ranger the captain had enlisted to take Charlie Langdon back to Tyler—and then to offer up training and indoctrination at the Red River camp, like the rest of them. That obviously was not the case.

  Josiah turned to Scrap. “Do you know who that man was? Was he riding with the captain when they brought in Charlie?”

  “Don’t know anything about that man. I wasn’t in the saloon. I was outside, keeping an eye on the jail with Pete Feders. Sam Willis and that traitor Vi McClure were inside the saloon losing their wages to the captain if I am to believe what I heard.”

  Josiah cast an annoyed glance at Scrap when he called McClure a traitor.

  “So you don’t know who this man was, Juan Carlos?” the mayor asked.

  “No, señor, I lost him, then tracked him back to the captain’s camp south of here. By the time I was upon him, the shooting had started. I was too late to save the captain. Fallé a mi mejor amigo. I failed my best friend,” Juan Carlos said softly. He looked away with a hint of a tear in his eye. “And now he is dead.”

  “I still don’t trust Patterson,” Josiah interjected, trying to turn the subject away from Juan Carlos and his familiar and painful emotion. To Josiah, seeing someone else’s loss was like throwing lye on an open wound.

  The undertaker kept his head down during the entire conversation. Acting like he wasn’t listening looked to be a skill one would acquire among the mourners of the dead. Though he did look up when Juan Carlos made mention of being in the camp when the shooting started. Josiah noticed that Juan Carlos’s words had caught the undertaker’s attention, and he made eye contact with the man with cold hands.

  The undertaker said nothing, but looked away quickly.

  Outside, another loud clap of thunder boomed overhead.

  “You really should be on your way,” Kessler said. “It will be a treacherous trip to Austin, without the annoyance of bad weather. This doesn’t sound like it is going to let up anytime soon.”

  Josiah agreed.

  “I would like it very much if you would allow me to cart the captain home,” Juan Carlos said to Josiah.

  “He’s a prisoner,” Scrap said abruptly. “And a Mexican at that!”

  “He’s the captain’s best friend,” Josiah said to Scrap sternly, then made an approving nod to the Mexican and headed for the door.

  Neu-Braunfels disappeared slowly behind the three men.

  Rain fell hard from the dark, gray sky. The light was dim and looked closer to evening than mid-morning. Thunder boomed almost constantly, making all of the horses nervous . . . and lightning flickered and jabbed down from the angry sky almost at every breath, making all three of the men wary of being struck.

  If delivering the captain’s body to Austin as soon as possible wasn’t so important, the journey could have easily been considered an escapade fit only for a trio of fools.

  Josiah and Clipper led the way, followed by Juan Carlos, easily handling the duty of driving the buckboard.

  The captain’s coffin—a fresh pine box that had darkened, aging almost before their very eyes, from the unrelenting rain—was bound, and centered, in the bed.

  Before leaving Neu-Braunfels, Josiah had expressed a desire for another gum blanket to cover the coffin, but there wasn’t one to be found. A black wool blanket from the captain’s own bedroll had to make do, even though its effectiveness was questionable.

  Fat Susie and the two trail horses were tied to the back of the buckboard. The trail horses had been refreshed and restocked with food to take to the captain’s family. Bread, strudel, cakes, and some cheeses—all of which Josiah could smell, and had to force himself not to break into.

  Scrap Elliot, begrudgingly, brought up the rear of the pack. He had wanted to bind Juan Carlos’s wrists and ankles, treat him like a true killer. The kid had not expressed it vocally, but all of his actions seemed to suggest that judgment had already been passed on the captain’s childhood friend.

  To most Anglos, the only good Mexican was a dead Mexican, regardless of the Mexican’s capacity for courage and heart. Scrap was obviously in the majority . . . and Josiah didn’t think that type of thought bode well for a man who had enlisted himself to become a Ranger. But then again, questioning Scrap Elliot’s capacity to be anything other than an annoyance was quickly becoming a pastime. Though not a favorite one.

  Mayor Kessler had also entrusted to Josiah a letter for the captain’s wife and daughter. The mayor planned on attending the funeral, but had some business to attend to before he could depart Neu-Braunfels for Austin—and he expressed a desire to wait out the rain . . . if that was possible.

  The undertaker did not express any interest in traveling to Austin, which suited Josiah just fine. Something about the man . . . something more than his being an undertaker, bothered Josiah—he just couldn’t put his finger on what that was.

  The storm seemed to be tracking northeast. After they’d been on the trail to Austin for about two hours, the clouds started to break up and slices of blue sky started to appear overhead.

  They were able to pick up the pace of their travels as the wet ground began to dry out in front of them. It had been a struggle getting the buckboard through some of the deep mud.

  The trail was reasonably well worn, and was cut through the rise and fall of the hills at the most navigable points. There were times, though, when Juan Carlos barely had enough room to get the wagon between opposing limestone outcroppings. The wagon nearly tipped, testing the ropes that held the captain’s coffin—which held fast, thankfully.

  Once they were on flatter ground, and the rain had completely ceased, Josiah eased Clipper over to the buckboard so he could talk with Juan Carlos.

  “It is good to see you again. I was not able to thank you properly for saving my life. I know you did not intend to kill Burly Smith. I am sorry for the trouble my lack of awareness has caused you.”

  “Ah, sí, it is good to see you again, too, Señor Wolfe. Anytime you take a knife to a man’s throat, you are taking fate into your hands. I promised the captain I would look after you. I did not want to fail him, Señor Wolfe. Or you for that matter. I am the one who has caused trouble. Not you.”

  “Josiah. Please, call me Josiah.”

  Juan Carlos smiled, exposing a mouth that had as many teeth missing as were there. A cigar stuck out of the top of his shirt pocket, and the Mexican adjusted his ragged black hat with an air of satisfaction. “We must be careful, though, señor, as we make our way into Austin.”

  “Why is that?”

  “There are as many storms brewing on the ground as in the sky.”

  “Indians?”

  “Sí. Isa-tai, the Comanche warrior and medicine man, has, um,” Juan Carlos stopped mid-sentence, and cast his eyes to the clearing sky, searching for the right word, it seemed, “organizó una danza . . . organized a dance. A powerful dance they call the sun dance.”

  Josiah shrugged his shoulders. He knew little of the ways of the Comanche, and had never heard of the sun dance.

  “Isa-tai is a prophet. He has made a comet disappear and commands great respect. The dance is said to give the power to the dancers to be able to spit out bullets . . . la inmotalidad es su promesa. Immortality is their promise.”

  “Sounds like a tale to me,” Josiah said. “Nothing can stop a bullet.”

  “I would not question the power of a man like Isa-tai. He has brought Lone Wolf and Quanah Parker together. It was not hard to feed on the hate Lone Wolf bears toward the white man since they killed his son.”
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br />   “Or toward the Rangers.”

  “Sí. The captain was aware of Lone Wolf’s rage, and feared the consequences—which seem about to come to pass. The tribes are gathering together. The Comanche, Kiowa, Cheyenne, and Arapaho—heading north in great numbers to save what remains of the great buffalo hunting grounds. So it is said. Isa-tai has done this—um, knitting together of tribes with his gift of tales. No other man has ever done such a thing. It will be a storm not soon forgotten if he is successful.”

  “You believe the gathering is about something else?”

  “He wants war, and has no concern for the hunting grounds. Of that I am certain. I do not trust a man such as Isa-tai. His name means coyote’s ass. I never trust a coyote. Especially the dirty end of one.”

  “How do you know this, Juan Carlos?” Josiah asked.

  “The land speaks to me, Josiah Wolfe. And the shadows and wind, too. There is the scent of blood in the air. If you lick your lips, you can taste it.” The Mexican licked his lips in a large, exaggerated way, then nodded to Josiah for him to copy his actions.

  Josiah did as he was told. He couldn’t taste anything but dust and mud. He shook his head no as Juan Carlos looked on expectantly.

  “Nothing.”

  Juan Carlos chuckled. “Someday, Josiah Wolfe. Keep practicing. I believe there is much more to you than what you show on the outside. You have powers that are untouched.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Trust me.”

  Clipper’s ears perked up, and both Josiah and the Mexican took notice. They stopped almost in unison.

  “Whoa,” Josiah said.

  The clouds had parted, the slices of blue giving way to full patches of calm and peaceful weather to the west of them. The angry cloud bank was east of them now, and could do no more harm.

  A red-tailed hawk soared in the distance, riding an unseen spiral of hot air higher into the sky. The bird was either playing after the weather had broken, or was gaining height to see its prey better because it was hungry, in need of food. Somewhere a jackrabbit was about to step out into the sun at the wrong time.

  The hawk called out, and the cry echoed eerily across the limestone rocks.

  The talk of Indians gathering into one large tribe, a fierce fighting force, bothered Josiah, but Adobe Walls was north of them. Far north. If there was a gathering, then there shouldn’t be any trouble near them. Still, if Juan Carlos was right and there were four tribes combining, who knew whose path they lay in?

  Juan Carlos scanned the shadows and fixed his gaze on an open crevice about thirty yards ahead of them.

  The Mexican was intent, searching for anything that moved.

  For the moment, Josiah could see nothing—but something told him to be ready, to take whatever cue the old man gave him and not question it.

  Scrap pulled up alongside them, and Josiah put up his hand to silence the kid before he said, or did, anything stupid.

  Josiah eased his hand inside his slicker. Even though the weather had broken, he’d left the coat on, but unbuttoned, wide open so he could reach the Peacemaker without any effort at all.

  The red-tailed hawk cried out again, the call rolling across the jagged limestone. Almost on command, another hawk appeared, a mate. It was still early enough in the spring for them to have chicks in the nest. They were most definitely on the hunt after the storm had passed.

  A smile suddenly crossed Juan Carlos’s face. “It is only a tejón, a badger.”

  Josiah relaxed his grip on the Peacemaker.

  Without hesitating, Scrap Elliot raised his rifle and fired a shot off in the direction of the badger.

  The shot missed the unsuspecting creature, but only by a few inches. The badger jumped straight up, landed on its feet, turned, and growled, which sounded almost like a bark, then hurried off into the shadows of the limestone crevice.

  The report from the shot rose into the air, drowning out any call from the hawks, and alerting anything—or anyone—of their presence in the shallow, unprotected, canyon.

  “Damn it, Elliot, are you a fool or what?” Josiah demanded. “Your idiocy might just lead an Indian raid right to us.”

  “Good,” Scrap answered.

  “You won’t think ‘good’ if they outnumber us ten to one. Then what will you have to say for yourself?”

  “I ain’t apologizin’ to you for nothin’.” Scrap dug his heels into Missy and sped off in a cloud of dust and anger.

  Josiah secretly hoped the kid would never come back, but he knew better. Scrap Elliot was going to be a burr in his butt all the way to Austin and beyond.

  CHAPTER 15

  After the storm passed, and Scrap shot at the badger, there were no other events of the day that brought any immediate concern to Josiah. The well-worn trail transformed into a wider road, known to everyone as El Camino Real, and it would take them a good way toward their destination.

  Josiah’s mind was on edge because of the old Mexican’s warning of Indians and Scrap’s constant disconcerting actions—but finally, the rhythm of the ride had calmed them all into a silent drive northward. There was nothing he could do about outlaws, renegade Indians, or trigger-happy boys but keep an eye out and proceed on with his duty to deliver the captain to his final resting place in the capital of Austin.

  Night came and went with Josiah and Scrap trading off watch duties. Juan Carlos filled in as cook, and did a fine job, though his rabbit was a little tougher than Vi McClure’s. It probably had more to do with the age of the rabbit and nothing to do with the old Mexican’s cooking method. But still, Josiah noticed, and he wondered about the big Scot, wondered if he were dead or alive . . . and silently hoped the latter was true.

  Coyotes yipped. Owls hooted. Josiah passed the time by whistling. And a cloudless sky stretched overhead.

  On previous nights, the moon could not be seen, but on this night, a sliver rose in the sky, a waxing crescent that barely lit the ground. But the dim moonlight succeeded in creating a forest of shadows in the valleys and canyons that could be seen from the top of the hill the camp had been set on, forcing Josiah to second-guess everything he heard or thought he saw moving.

  Once an owl flew over his head and he nearly shot at it, nearly acted as impulsively as Scrap Elliot. It was probably that thought that kept him from pulling the carbine’s trigger.

  The captain’s body lay undisturbed in the coffin on the back of the buckboard, close enough to the fire to ward off any seekers of carrion, but far enough away not to encourage the further quickening of rot and decay.

  Juan Carlos did not stray far from the buckboard, and he and Josiah were both well aware that the smell of death attracted all kinds of creatures—seen and unseen—but so far they had not had to run any such creatures off.

  There was nothing they could do about the swarms of flies that constantly hovered during the warm day, but at least at night the flies tended to disappear to somewhere unknown.

  Josiah was glad he would not have to lay eyes on the captain’s mortal body again. Now, like all of those who had passed on, the only form the captain would be able to take was in his memory, a flickering image that, as Josiah knew all too well, would fade quickly with time.

  Some days he could not remember what Lily’s voice sounded like, and would give anything to hear her whisper in his ear, swear her true love to his heart—and he to her.

  He knew that with time he would have to strain to hear the captain’s voice—the commands, the duties, and the lessons—he would need to learn how to be a new kind of Ranger, riding with a new, unknown captain. That is if he chose to remain a Ranger, now that the captain was dead.

  He hadn’t thought much about his future, since there were unfulfilled tasks at hand, but there was a nagging pull in his stomach, something he knew he would have to examine once he was free of his duties in Austin and facing Pete Feders again, awaiting his next set of orders.

  He wasn’t sure if Feders would be made a captain, but he gue
ssed that would happen. But that sure didn’t mean he would be riding with the man who was always Captain Hiram Fikes’s second in command.

  There was only one order that Josiah was interested in taking from Feders, or whoever his new captain would be, and that order was to track down and bring in Charlie Langdon. Beyond that Josiah was not certain what he would do.

  As the days ticked by, he knew that the pull to return home would become stronger and stronger, especially now that Captain Fikes was dead. Just as he had to strain to hear the captain and Lily speak or sing, he also had to strain to hear the coos and giggles of his son. At times, it was almost as if Lyle were dead, too.

  “We are not far from the Rio Blanco,” Juan Carlos said, bringing the wagon to a stop.

  The brake creaked, and Josiah feared the axle might be about to give out. It had been hard going since leaving Neu-Braunfels.

  “How hard is this river to cross?” Scrap asked.

  Josiah had pulled Clipper ahead of the wagon, looked out in the distance, then circled back. “Looks like some spots of the river run underground, so there is nothing but boulders and shrubs up ahead, as far I can tell,” he said.

  Morning light dappled on a rise of more limestone outcroppings that then gave way to rolling green-topped hills in the distance. Austin was still a long way off, another day at least, probably a day and a half.

  “Sí. We are not too near the narrows, a deep ravine with treacherous rapids. It will not be a problem here where the river falls beneath the earth.”

  Josiah nodded, urged Clipper on, and headed north again. He could hear the river running the closer they got to it, but the sound was muffled, since it dropped under the earth where they were crossing. The ground rumbled, vibrated from the power underneath his horse’s hooves. He had never felt anything so strange in his life.