The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Before Josiah climbed back up on the wagon, the sheriff, a sprite younger man with a finely waxed mustache, approached him hesitantly.

  “I would imagine you are going to deliver the body of Captain Fikes to his home?”

  Josiah nodded. The sheriff’s clothes smelled clean, and his coat hardly had a speck of dust on it. His name was Rory Farnsworth, and the stiff, tart lawman had made it quick business to let Josiah know that he had attended college out east before returning to Texas. After, of course, Josiah had informed the sheriff of Juan Carlos’s “escape.”

  Sheriff Farnsworth sent out two deputies to aid Scrap in the search, but showed little excitement about the Mexican’s whereabouts. He was more concerned with wagging Josiah’s ear about his stature as a lawman.

  Sheriffs must drink a special brand of whiskey, Josiah thought to himself. One that raises their opinion of themselves to a dangerously high level. It’d be like living on a cliff as far as Josiah was concerned. He was glad he’d never developed a taste for whiskey.

  Then the sheriff had gone on and on, babbling about his family life as if it mattered to Josiah.

  Farnsworth was more than pompously proud of himself—he was elated with himself. According to Farnsworth his bloodline had dictated a higher calling, but he had bucked his family’s view of how he should live his life as a legislator back east. Instead, he had taken up the badge in the rough-and-tumble state of Texas, rebelling and finding his true calling, all at once. It was a serious, if underpaid, vocation, as far as Farnsworth was concerned, but he felt certain he was up to the daily challenge of maintaining peace, reeling in ruffians, and shooting an exact and deadly shot if it was required of him.

  Educated men, especially educated lawmen, who were vocally concerned about their legacy, unsettled Josiah, made him more nervous than a shoot-out in a wide-open canyon.

  He wanted to get away from the jail block as quickly as possible. Especially considering that his last encounter with a sheriff, specifically Sheriff J. T. Patterson, hadn’t turned out too well as far as Josiah was concerned. He was convinced that the sheriff in San Antonio was responsible for the captain’s death, since before dying McClure had named him as one of the men in the fleeing gang after the captain had been killed. A murderous lawman, indeed, even though it didn’t make sense. Still, a lawman with a bad streak was not unprecedented.

  He gave Farnsworth the information about Patterson that McClure had given him, but the sheriff did not seem inclined to take the accusation too seriously. He said he would pass on the information . . . as would Josiah.

  At that moment, Josiah wondered how Sam Willis and Pete Feders had fared in their quest. He didn’t know if they were still alive, in pursuit of Charlie Langdon, or had him in custody. Sheriff Farnsworth had no news for him on that front.

  “I do plan on delivering the captain home. As quickly as I can,” Josiah said to the sheriff, looking out into the crowd that was still gathered around the buckboard. “As soon as Ranger Elliot returns. I doubt he would be able to find the captain’s home if you drew him a map.”

  “And the other dead man? What are your plans for him?”

  “I’m hoping for directions to the undertaker.”

  “Be about two blocks up and on your right. Once you’re there, you’re not too far from the captain’s house. You won’t be able to miss it. Go about half a mile past the governor’s mansion, turn right on the third alleyway, and the house sits about another half mile down the way on the right. Same man that was responsible for the governor’s mansion also built the captain’s house. Abner Cook, do you know of him?” the sheriff asked.

  “Can’t say that I do. My father built my cabin.” With that, Josiah climbed up on the buckboard and took the reins into his hands. “I’ll check back after I’ve settled in, and give the circuit court judge my testimony, if need be, about Juan Carlos.”

  “There’s no need to worry, Ranger Wolfe. It is well known here in Austin that Captain Hiram Fikes and Juan Carlos were longtime friends. It does not surprise me that he made his way into the streets. He’s probably down yonder in the place they call ‘Little Mexico,’ deep in the arms of a woman by now, and swilling tequila.”

  “Good,” Josiah said. “I’ll take you at your word.”

  “Most people do. Good day, Wolfe. I’m sure we’ll meet again at the captain’s funeral. The governor is planning on attending, you know. And I heard that Major Jones is returning quickly from the new camp of Rangers specifically to pay tribute to Captain Fikes. Important men from all over the state, even Indian Territory, are expected. It will be a sad day for all Texas to bid farewell to the captain.”

  Josiah stiffened at the thought of the company of politicians. He had not considered that the funeral would be a draw to men of great importance, or that it would cause Major Jones to return to Austin.

  “If Ranger Elliot comes looking for me, tell him to meet up with me at the undertaker’s. I’ll wait for him there.”

  Sheriff Farnsworth agreed that he would, then bid Josiah a good day.

  Josiah did not return the gesture.

  A good day would come when he was sitting on Clipper, alone, on the trail, heading back to the cabin in the piney woods, and not before.

  Josiah was visiting an undertaker for the second time in just as many days, and he was none too pleased with the streak. He hoped this was the end of it.

  Once Vi McClure’s body was deposited with the undertaker, a large fellow with buckteeth and an odd smell to his breath, Josiah waited outside for Scrap. There would be no funeral for McClure.

  A notice would be put in the paper announcing his death, and the circumstances under which that questionable event occurred, and then, more than likely, the Scot would be deposited in a pauper’s grave, and his story would come to an end there.

  Josiah tried to remember if McClure had said he was originally from Kentucky or Tennessee, but he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember the town the Scot hailed from, either, or if McClure had even said where he was from. There’d be no way to get word to his place of birth without knowing for certain. For some reason, Josiah felt sad at the thought.

  Luckily, he did not have too much time to consider the effects of Vi McClure’s passing. Scrap rode up on Missy with a scowl on his face as broad as the whole state of Texas.

  “Didn’t find the Mexican, I take it?” Josiah asked.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “Got lucky, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, enough of your bellyaching, let’s get Captain Fikes home. We’re almost there. Once we’re free of that task, you can stand around and accuse me of dereliction of my duty all you want, but I assure you, it will fall on deaf ears.”

  “Feders and Willis will listen to me.”

  Josiah nodded. “They will listen to us both. And to the sheriff, too. Oh, and if you’re lucky, perhaps Major Jones will lend an ear to your tales as well.”

  “Major Jones?”

  “Yes. He’s coming for the captain’s funeral. The governor, too, from what I understand. There’ll be a long line of dignitaries, all in their finery, anxious to hear how Captain Fikes came to meet his maker. I would suggest you have your story practiced by then.”

  “I know what I saw. I ain’t got a need to practice anything,” Scrap said, the scowl still on his face.

  “I suppose not,” Josiah answered, grabbing up the reins of the horse and putting the buckboard in motion with one quick flick of the leather.

  CHAPTER 20

  Josiah stopped the buckboard, suddenly, before turning onto the lane that led up to the captain’s house. It was an impressive structure. Not nearly as big as the governor’s mansion they had just ridden by, but every bit as grand. Four white columns held up the gabled roof of a two-story portico that looked out over a calm meadow with a pond nearly in the center of it.

  An empty bench sat looking out over the still waters of the pond, and Josiah could imagine Captain Fike
s sitting on the bench, smoking after an evening meal, pondering about Rangering, politics, or Texas in general; all of the things he loved. Maybe the captain came home to rejuvenate, rest before tackling another journey on the trail. Being away from home took a special man. Josiah was relearning those skills . . . but he wasn’t sure if he had what it took anymore. He was certain if he had a home as grand as the captain’s, he’d never want to leave it.

  Wrought iron fronted the second story of the house, making entry and exit safe from the doors and windows that led outside to twin balconies. The red tile roof shimmered in the full sun, and the whitewash on the stucco exterior looked newly applied, like the work had been done in the last day or so.

  Spring flowers lined the lane leading up to the house, another sea of flittering bluebonnets, and there were pots with fernlike plants situated at both sides of the main entrance. The air smelled like a sweet mixture of subtle perfume and freshly cut grass that had been taken nearly to the ground with a sickle. Everything around the house was neat, trim, and clean.

  Two large barns stood just past the house, just beyond a series of well-maintained servant quarters and a large carriage house. Tall, imposing trees, cottonwoods and elms, populated the rest of the grounds, offering a healthy dose of shade to the round circular drive at the front.

  It was hard to believe they were so close to the heart of Austin, and yet the house and surrounding land seemed so tranquil. It was not too long ago that there was a battle for the state house—a battle that almost brought in federal troops, the cavalry.

  Black buntings were neatly adorned across the front of the house, swags of heavy cloth whose only purpose was to give the notice of death’s certain arrival. Sadness at the estate was now fully advertised, and decorated properly for the men of high office and stature expected to pay tribute to the fallen hero and resident, a true son of Texas, Captain Hiram Fikes, on the grounds of his own home and final resting place.

  But it was not only the sight of the house that stopped Josiah in his tracks, it was the woman, standing on the first balcony, who had made his heart rise unexpectedly in his throat.

  The lane ended at the house well over thirty yards from where he sat, but he could see her clearly . . . almost too clearly, for the sunlight was perfect, beaming down on the woman’s shoulder-length blond hair, soft-featured face, and hourglass figure, adorned in the proper black, as she stood on the second floor, gazing out in the distance at nothing in particular.

  Her face showed strains of worry, but there was a sweetness projecting from the woman that was unmistakable, though not to be confused with fragility. And she was more than a girl, which is what Josiah had expected once he had learned there was a daughter of the captain’s still living in his home.

  Then Josiah remembered Juan Carlos’s warning, and even without proper introductions, he knew he had laid his eyes on the captain’s daughter, Pearl, for the very first time.

  She was nearly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  He had to catch his breath at the thought, and looked quickly over his shoulder to see if Scrap had noticed his confusion—and embarrassment.

  “Ride ahead, Elliot,” he ordered, wiping the sweat off his brow.

  Scrap looked at Josiah curiously. “You all right, Wolfe?”

  “Why?”

  “Your face just turned red as a sugar beet. Something the matter?”

  “No, just ride ahead. Mind your manners if anyone comes out to meet you.”

  Scrap smirked, shook his head, and guided Missy slowly around the buckboard. “I never met a man as contrary as you, Wolfe. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

  “Go. Just go.”

  The woman, Pearl, he was still assuming, turned her gaze to Josiah and Scrap, as Scrap rode up to the house as fast as he could.

  Her head drooped momentarily as she saw the coffin on the back of the buckboard, the reality of her father’s death now a certainty instead of a rumor that hopefully, possibly, was not true. She did not need to see the body to know that his death was real now.

  Two strangers had come calling, carrying a wood box that contained her worst nightmare—at least, that’s how Josiah supposed she felt; it was how he would feel, how he had felt when he had watched Lily’s coffin being lowered into the grave.

  When the woman looked up, after realizing what she was witnessing, a tear glistened down her cheek, and knowing she had been seen as well, she turned and walked inside—but before she disappeared off the balcony, she looked directly at Josiah, looked him in the eye, nodded as if to say thank you, forced a smile that couldn’t have been more beautiful, then disappeared inside the double French doors.

  Josiah’s stomach fluttered and turned in circles, like he was a schoolboy seeing a pretty girl for the very first time.

  He never thought he would feel that way again, experience any kind of attraction to another woman.

  Now was not the time, he told himself. He felt guilty. Silly. Out of control. Ashamed that he had even let himself think of another woman, a woman in mourning at that. He had betrayed his entire life with Lily in one moment of unprecedented weakness and surprise. He wasn’t sure how to live with that.

  There was only one thing to do now: Deliver the captain’s coffin, express his condolences, and be on his way as quickly as possible.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t have to see Pearl, or meet her. Perhaps she had a beau, or was married. He knew nothing of her—other than that she glowed, radiated life and a loveliness that he had never seen before. Ever.

  If he were not the bearer of a dead body, stuck smack-dab in the middle of a nightmare, then Josiah Wolfe would have thought that he had dozed off and woken up in the middle of a dream he’d never considered himself capable of having.

  Maybe it was the season, spring, and the wildflowers, their fragrance making him drunk and lost to himself. Maybe, he thought . . . that was it. Even though he knew better.

  He had forgotten the part of him that was weak to desire, the part of him that hungered for the softness of a touch and enjoyed the sweaty whispers of love in the middle of the night. He had willed that part of himself away, thought he had buried desire and need in a grave in East Texas, in a small cemetery that also held his three daughters, their life cut short, his emotional life ended as well.

  Josiah knew that leaving quickly after depositing Captain Fikes’s body would betray his orders.

  Not only had Feders insisted that he stay in Austin, but Josiah was to be of service to the captain’s family, in any way they needed, until he received his next set of orders.

  Josiah took a deep breath at the thought of disobeying orders, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. Then he chided himself once more for being inappropriate and headed to the captain’s grand house once and for all.

  Scrap was standing next to Missy, his head bowed to the ground. Four Mexicans had appeared out of nowhere and immediately moved to the back of the buckboard once Josiah came to a stop.

  The front door of the house swung open, and Josiah held his breath.

  To his relief, a tall Mexican man dressed in a formal black suit—frock coat, white gloves, and all—stepped outside, holding the door open.

  Josiah knew little about the hierarchy of servants. His family had certainly never had the kind of money to employ any, with the exception of the help Ofelia gave him, but that was on a different scale, an emotional transaction as much as it was a monetary arrangement—Ofelia felt responsible for Lyle, and Josiah accepted that fully and was grateful for her help. He never felt ownership over the midwife. Never even considered it.

  But this servant, this man, who looked quite a lot like Juan Carlos, enough to be his brother, was most definitely in charge, the hierarchy certain.

  The four men behind the buckboard looked expectantly to the formally dressed man for orders, for what was to come next. The servant nodded, then flipped the palm of his hand subtly at the four, an obvious signal for them to wait.

  Who came ne
xt was the lady of the house.

  The captain’s wife—or so Josiah assumed . . . again—spewing orders, directing each man to remove the coffin from the wagon immediately. There was no emotion. At least no hysterics like he had been led to believe might occur when he was first instructed to meet the captain’s wife. Just the opposite. The woman was on a mission.

  “Take that out of my sight,” the woman said, pointing at the blanket that had covered the coffin all the way from Neu-Braunfels. “Burn it.”

  “Sí,” the manservant said, nodding, backing away, sweeping up the blanket and stowing it behind him.

  The woman ignored Josiah and Scrap as the four Mexicans pulled the coffin off the wagon, then hefted it on their shoulders.

  “Take him to the parlor and put him in the new coffin there. Then burn that one along with that sorry blanket. And for God’s sake, don’t let Pearl see the mortal remains of her father when you put him in the new coffin. She is nearly at her breaking point the way it is.”

  No one said anything; all four men stiffened, then marched past the woman, carrying the coffin inside like they were instructed.

  The woman, who was dressed head to toe in black widow’s weeds, stood back and watched the coffin pass by closely—without showing any emotion at all. She looked like she was judging the quality of craftsmanship applied to the hand-crafted box and wholeheartedly disapproved.

  If the captain were alive and standing next to the woman, she would have towered over him by a good head and a half. She was tall and bony and had wiry gray hair pulled up on top of her head, bound in the back, and topped with a small black hat, the suitable veil of which was pulled up out of her face. Her cheeks were a little sunken, and her blue eyes were pale, the color of a robin’s egg.