The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  McClure didn’t hesitate. “Patterson. The sheriff from San Antonio. And his posse that was looking for the Mexican.”

  “You sure?”

  “As sure as I didn’t shoot Captain Fikes. That I am. Sure as I didn’t kill the best Ranger I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowin’,” McClure said sadly, then closed his eyes, signaling that he was finished telling his tale.

  Josiah still wasn’t sure of the truth. Some of what McClure said still didn’t make sense to him, but he decided to let the man be. There’d be time later for more questions.

  CHAPTER 18

  Juan Carlos brought the buckboard to an easy stop on the crest of the hill. A valley stretched out in the distance, and Austin, cut by the mighty Colorado River, which was swollen from the spring rains, rose up on the side of a ravine like a long-lost city, basking in the golden evening light, glowing almost as if it were the promised land, Heaven itself.

  Josiah halted Clipper and sighed as he took in the view. Clipper, on the other hand, seemed to be in no mood for reflection or for celebrating the end of the journey from San Antonio. The Appaloosa was nervous, dancing back and forth and snorting harshly. Josiah quickly trained his attention back on the horse. The view could wait.

  He tried his best to calm his trusted ride, a feat that was normally reasonably easy, due to Clipper’s kind nature, but every trick Josiah knew was not working. He wondered if there was a rattlesnake nearby, even though he didn’t hear anything but the rush of a northern breeze caressing the hill they were atop, showering his face with a preview of the coming, cool night. The beauty of spring in Texas was hot days and cold nights.

  “Whoa, what’s the matter, boy?” Josiah said, looking all about for a snake hole, mostly down at the hard, packed-down ground that made up El Camino Real.

  It only took a matter of seconds to figure out what had spooked Clipper.

  McClure shouted, then pointed at a boulder in the distance, nearly a hundred feet to the west of them, on a small rise. “Wolfe! Over there!”

  Clipper scurried backward, defying Josiah’s pull on the bit. Fear was stuck in the whites of the horse’s eyes, like he had seen his own death.

  A shot rang out, shattering the silence, proving that Clipper’s sense of worry was warranted—once again.

  Vi McClure had only a second to react to the pain, to try and raise his hand to his face, like he was flicking away an insect or something biting, before his cheek exploded into a wad of flesh, then splattered outward in a bloody shower of grain and flecks of bone.

  His body bounced back against the captain’s coffin. The force of the hit was nearly as loud as the shot—which boomed and echoed around them all like a .50-caliber, a buffalo gun.

  The second shot came immediately behind the first one, and this one, perfectly aimed, hit McClure squarely in the throat. The direct hit nearly severed the Scot’s head, shoving it back, hard, against the sideboard. A stunned, surprised look froze across what was left of McClure’s pale white face, then he collapsed in a convulsing shake that only lasted a little longer than a blink of an eye.

  In the matter of a breath, Vi McClure was dead, sprawled out. He was pinned up against the coffin, the major artery in his throat severed. Blood ran like the river in the valley below, anxious, rushing everywhere it could. The big Scot was left soaking in a pool of blood that poured freely through the slats of the buckboard, a crimson red waterfall dancing in the dirt of El Camino Real.

  Josiah’s body had jerked like he was startled when the first shot erupted. It looked like the shot had scared him—but he wasn’t scared; he was ignited.

  He saw each shimmer of McClure’s flesh, each droplet of blood shower south of the Scot’s head, and reacted in kind. His war-enabled muscles suddenly remembered what to do. He was not in control of himself from that moment on, but more so; he was outside himself, an observer set on revenge and, most importantly, survival.

  He pulled the Sharps out of its sheath in one seamless yank, slid off Clipper, momentarily using his horse, and loyal friend, as a shield. In another swift motion, he swatted the horse’s rump, sending the Appaloosa running down the hill, out of harm’s way.

  Clipper was more than happy to oblige.

  Josiah dove under the buckboard and rolled into a shooting position, aiming the Sharps toward the boulder from where the shots originated.

  More shots rang out. Two different puffs of smoke rose up from behind the big granite rock—two different shooters with one objective.

  Dirt exploded inches from Josiah’s face. He steadied the Sharps against the wagon wheel and returned fire, all the while wishing with more than a curse for a new Winchester repeater.

  Juan Carlos joined him under the buckboard. There was a rip on the Mexican’s shirtsleeve and a bit of blood from where a bullet had grazed him.

  “You all right?” Josiah asked.

  “Sí, just fine.”

  Josiah tossed the Peacemaker to Juan Carlos. “You have five shots.”

  The Mexican nodded, grabbed the pistol, and aimed toward the boulder.

  Scrap had hustled himself and his own horse alongside the trail horses and Fat Susie. All of the horses were startled. They were jumping, pulling, whinnying, at every shot.

  A heavy volley of shots erupted, both from behind the boulder and from Scrap, Josiah, and Juan Carlos. The air was quickly filled with clouds of smoke, with the smell of gunpowder, death, and blood.

  The trail horse on the outside, the closest one to the unseen shooters, stumbled and then fell, three gaping bullet holes appearing in its body in a thump and explosion of blood, the crucial one right behind the ear. Death had come quick to the horse, just like it had with McClure.

  Josiah had plenty of metal cartridges, plenty of ammunition, and was a quick reloader. Juan Carlos had shot off all five rounds. Josiah tossed him a handful of bullets, then returned fire.

  The other trail horse and Fat Susie stood in between Scrap and his horse, Missy. But the horses, save Missy and Clipper, were tied to the buckboard.

  If it weren’t for the dead horse, the wagon would have started to roll. As it was, the wheels were lurching back and forth, making it hard for Josiah and Juan Carlos to judge their shots.

  “Elliot, calm those damn horses,” Josiah shouted.

  “They ain’t going to calm down until the shooting stops,” Scrap yelled back.

  And, just as if the shooters had heard them, the shooting did stop. Josiah and Juan Carlos froze, looked at each other, then began shooting again. Nothing was returned. Just the wind, and the smell of a battle, an ambush that left a sour taste in Josiah’s mouth.

  “Maybe you hit them, Senõr Wolfe,” Juan Carlos said, reloading yet another chamber of bullets.

  “Would have been a lucky shot. All I saw was the barrel of a rifle. How about you?”

  “Sí, I saw nothing but smoke.”

  “Did you hit them, Elliot?” Josiah called out.

  “Don’t know,” he answered. “Couldn’t see a darn thing.”

  “Us, either.”

  “Damn.”

  The smoke started to clear, and the hooves of running horses echoed down the hill.

  Scrap rose up and shot at the departing horses in the distance. “There’s two of them,” he shouted. “Damn it, I missed them.”

  Josiah jumped from underneath the buckboard, just in time to see the tail end of the last horse disappear over the rise on the hill. All he could see after that was the rising dust of a clean escape, heading east, away from Austin.

  Juan Carlos joined him and handed the Peacemaker back to Josiah. “Gracias. Aprecio tu confianza. I appreciate your trust.”

  Josiah nodded. “You’ll never have to worry about that with me.”

  Scrap spit on the ground and looked away. “Looks like McClure got hit more than once.”

  “Looks that way.” Josiah walked over to the Scot. There was no question the man was dead, but he wanted to make sure, so he felt for a pulse. There was nothin
g to feel, nothing to hear. Nothing but the drip, drip, drip of blood. “What’d you see, Elliot?”

  “Just two men. Looked a little familiar now that I think about it. One was a Negro and the other was a redhead, an Irish, I think.”

  Josiah nodded again. “Patterson rode with a Negro and an Irish. Said the Irish was a tracker, called him O’Reilly if I remember right. I think they might have accomplished what they came after.”

  “What is that, señor?”

  “To silence McClure.”

  “Well,” Scrap said. “They sure as hell did that. But if he was one of them, why in tarnation would they want him dead?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t one of them, Elliot.”

  “I’ll never believe that. I know what I saw.”

  Josiah shrugged this time. “Makes no difference now, does it? The man’s dead. He can’t defend himself, or tell anyone his side of the story.”

  “He told you, señor?”

  “He did. Almost. Enough, I think, but there are still some things I don’t understand. But that’s the way it goes. I guess we’ll just have to accept the truth whatever way we can. Can’t bring back the captain, anyway. The trials of the living don’t matter to the dead.”

  “Or el Hombre Grande. The Big Man.”

  Josiah forced a smile and nodded toward Juan Carlos. “You’re right. But we’ll make sure the captain gets a decent burial, instead of being dumped alongside the trail.”

  Scrap stalked off and started to untie the dead horse from the buckboard. But before he did, he kicked the horse as hard as he could, then glared at Josiah so severely that Josiah wasn’t quite sure if the kid was going to pull his gun on him or not.

  They were just south of Republic Square, their first destination, where the courthouse and jail block were, just beyond a crowded street of clapboard buildings. It surprised Josiah that most of the people along the street were Mexicans. The air smelled of horse shit and spicy food.

  Austin was nothing like Josiah had expected it to be.

  “We must be a little careful through here, señor. It would be best if I am not seen as a preso, a prisoner. The locals call this place ‘Little Mexico.’ It is a wilderness of sorts. Several bad men I have known have met their fates here. Plenty of fandangos, shootings, and unlawfulness happens after the fall of night. The Anglos stay wide, mostly, unless they are looking for trouble in the form of drink . . . or a woman.”

  “I’ll take your advice.” Josiah nodded, then brought them all to a stop with a raised hand. He quickly released the rope that bound Juan Carlos’s legs to the buckboard.

  They had rolled McClure’s body in the blanket that had covered the captain’s coffin, and laid him out in the buckboard as well.

  The dead horse had been left for the coyotes and wolves. Luckily, Fat Susie and the other trail horse had survived the shooting unscathed, though both were jumpier than before the ambush.

  Josiah and Juan Carlos had no problem navigating through the streets of “Little Mexico,” as Juan Carlos had called this section of Austin.

  The buckboard was given a wide berth. It was almost like their arrival had been announced ahead of time.

  Some businesses were closed, shades drawn. Most everyone stopped as they passed, Anglo and Mexican alike—though there were far more Mexicans to be seen than Anglos. Hats were doffed, hearts covered, eyes lowered. A few Mexican women wept openly once they realized there was a coffin on the back of the wagon.

  Someone shouted, “Las vidas del capitán en nuestros corazones.”

  Juan Carlos nodded and said to Josiah, “The captain lives in our hearts.”

  “He was a hero here?”

  “Por todas partes. Everywhere. Captain Fikes was an amigo to most everyone. Mexicano or Anglo.”

  The clapboard buildings in “Little Mexico” gave way to the square, a vast open space dotted with towering trees, and people began to become sparse along the street that cut through the field to the courthouse and jail block.

  “I trust you will be all right once I relieve myself of your custody,” Josiah said quietly to Juan Carlos, making sure Scrap did not get a whiff of his plan to set Juan Carlos free instead of turning him over for trial.

  McClure’s death had solidified the idea, the thought, even though he had been struggling over the rights and wrongs of such a release since Juan Carlos had joined them in Neu-Braunfels.

  Josiah owed the Mexican his life, and as much as he trusted the captain’s reputation to proceed them into Austin and keep Juan Carlos safe, in the arms of justice, he also was not naïve. The level of hate most Anglos felt against any Mexican was worn openly—the captain was a rarity.

  Juan Carlos could just as easily get ambushed in the jail—with no place to go—as they had been on the trail.

  The tricky part would be keeping Scrap at bay, making him believe the escape was not premeditated, that Josiah himself had not subjugated the law and in the end become a criminal himself.

  “I will be fine. I have family here,” Juan Carlos said with a knowing glance. “They will know of my situation soon enough, if they do not already. And Pearl, she will know, too. I will not be alone.”

  “Pearl?”

  “The captain’s daughter. She is like my own flesh and blood.” A slight smile crossed Juan Carlos’s weathered face. “Do not take her for a fool, or you will suffer greatly.”

  Josiah said nothing.

  He had a duty to do—to both the captain and Juan Carlos, and as soon as he was finished, certain that he was successful, he hoped to return home, briefly, to see Lyle and tend to his needs if there were any, then head on to the Red River camp with the other Rangers.

  He had no plans of taking anyone for a fool.

  Especially a woman.

  CHAPTER 19

  Josiah had to fight off the flies that were swarming over McClure’s body when he tied Clipper to the back of the buckboard alongside Fat Susie and the remaining trail horse. They were stopped outside the jail block, and much to Josiah’s relief, a crowd had gathered around the buckboard, though they kept a respectful distance . . . at least out of range of the flies and the stink of death.

  Scrap did not question Josiah’s action.

  Once they finished this leg of the journey, meant to be the successful turning over of Juan Carlos to the sheriff, Josiah would have to take over the duty of guiding the buckboard through the streets of Austin, and delivering the coffin to the Fikes’s home.

  The kid had dismounted his horse, Missy, and was standing on the boardwalk in front of the jail, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol, a .36-caliber Paterson Colt.

  Josiah knew Scrap carried the Paterson because of another Texas Ranger, John Coffee Hays.

  Hays was an early Ranger whose campaign against the Comanche in the forties was legendary now. That campaign was considered one of the first fully landed punches in the long fight against the Comanche in Texas. A Lipan Apache chief called Hays, who was little more than a kid himself when he became a Ranger, “Bravo-Too-Much.” It didn’t surprise Josiah that Scrap envied Hays’s stature and wanted to be like him as much as possible.

  “Damn flies,” Josiah said out loud, swatting the insects away from his face.

  Scrap laughed. “That traitor sure did draw the biters.”

  “You should be a little more respectful of the dead,” Josiah said. He crossed around behind Clipper, chiding Scrap all the way, then stopped face-to-face with the kid—whose back was now to Juan Carlos.

  “McClure’ll surely rot in hell,” Scrap said with a smirk. “Already is as far as that goes. Not a second too soon, either, if you ask me.”

  “You seem pretty positive that McClure had something to pay a penance for.”

  “I am. I most certainly am.”

  “The man deserved a fair trial, not being shot in cold blood like he was.”

  Scrap looked down to his boots. Kicked his right one, then stared back at Josiah without saying anything else.

 
“He killed the captain. That’s that. Any misery that came to McClure after that was misery he brought on himself.”

  Josiah squared his shoulders. “You’re positive of that, aren’t you?”

  Scrap started to say something, casting a quick glance over his shoulder before a word escaped his mouth. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing: an empty seat on the buckboard.

  Juan Carlos was gone.

  “Where’s the Mexican?” Scrap demanded, turning and unholstering his Paterson at the same time.

  “Well, now look what you’ve done, Elliot,” Josiah scolded, scanning the crowd for a sight of Juan Carlos, glad to see nothing that resembled the old man.

  A mass of Mexicans was swarming the street, and to Scrap they probably all looked alike. Josiah had to forcibly keep a smile from crossing his face.

  “Me? Why is it my fault?” Scrap said, stretching his neck up and about, looking everywhere for Juan Carlos. “Damn it. I can’t see nothing but Mexicans. He could be staring me in the face and I wouldn’t know it.”

  “How am I supposed to keep an eye on somebody when I’m behind the wagon, then behind a horse?”

  “You let him go, then.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You’ve been chummin’ with him since he showed up in Neu-Braunfels.”

  Josiah stared at Scrap and could tell the kid wasn’t quite sure of his accusation, was searching for a way out of the mess he’d seemingly found himself in. “You saw the bindings on his legs as clear as I did. His wrists were bound, too, only with enough give for him to navigate the wagon. How, exactly, did I let him go?”

  “I don’t know, but you did.”

  “Well, you better go after him. I’ll let the sheriff know what happened.”

  Scrap hesitated, the look on his face showing that he was actively rethinking his immediate accusation. “Maybe the ropes came loose,” he finally said.

  “Yeah, maybe they did,” Josiah said with a sigh, as Scrap took off and disappeared into the crowd himself.

  I hope those ropes stay off, Josiah thought to himself. And, as sad as it was, he hoped he never saw Juan Carlos again. He hoped the old Mexican would live out his life safely, in secret, now that his protector and friend, Captain Hiram Fikes, was dead. But something told Josiah that his hope was a waste of effort. He would surely see Juan Carlos again, and the circumstances were bound to be unpleasant.