The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “I doubt he’ll see it, if there is one,” the captain said.

  Josiah nodded in agreement. “He disappeared once the deputies arrived.”

  Captain Fikes cleared his throat and looked to the door of the lobby, signaling he was ready to leave. “Don’t worry about Juan Carlos. He’ll show up when you least expect him to. Always does.”

  “It’s good to have friends like that.”

  “It is.”

  “Funny thing is, I thought Charlie Langdon was my friend once upon a time.”

  “We all make mistakes,” the captain said. “Charlie’s safe and secure in shackles. Sheriff Patterson has the jail under control . . . now. We’ll be heading out in the morning, just like I planned. I was fixin’ to check in on you before everything went wild on us. Patterson—” The captain stopped mid-sentence, and twisted his lip into a snarl. His eyes narrowed, then he looked away from Josiah, shaking his head in disgust.

  Josiah decided quickly that Captain Fikes was not fond of Sheriff J. T. Patterson. Josiah had never met the man, but had heard he was none too liked in town, so he could only assume Fikes was more than a little irritated about the jailbreak attempt, especially considering the captain seemed to know ahead of time that it was going to happen. Combined with Burly Smith’s visit to the Menger that went unimpeded, it didn’t speak too highly of the local law enforcers, or J. T. Patterson’s ability to keep the peace.

  Josiah wasn’t about to set fire to the captain’s kindling, so he kept his mouth shut, and left Sheriff Patterson’s reputation to simmer quietly on Hiram Fikes’s tongue.

  As if he could read Josiah’s state of mind, the captain headed out of the lobby without saying another word. His swagger was a little more pronounced, and his steps were heavier than usual. There was nothing like seeing a man fully in charge and chagrined at the same time. Josiah followed quietly in step. He figured he might just sleep with Clipper at the livery, all things considered, and shave himself.

  Pete Feders and Scrap Elliot were waiting for the captain just outside the Menger. They introduced themselves to Josiah, even though he and Feders had ridden together a few years back when the Rangers were trumped by the State Police.

  Feders was nearly as tall as Josiah, and was built lean, too. He was almost the same age, a veteran of the War Between the States, and came from a county in West Texas where he’d fought the Comanche and the Kiowa more times than he liked to talk about. A thin scar ran from the corner of Pete’s right eye to his ear, and Josiah tried not to stare at it or wonder if it came from an Indian fight.

  Josiah thought it was interesting that Pete Feders was not going to fight directly on the frontier, since that was his home territory. But he knew that Feders was loyal to Captain Fikes, and the two had been partnered together pretty much since the onset of the war. In fact Pete Feders had been with the captain when they’d caught up with Charlie Langdon.

  Scrap Elliot, on the other hand, was young, probably twenty years old, if that. In Josiah’s mind, that made Scrap a kid who hadn’t quite made the transition from boyhood to manhood. He had soft skin, barely any facial hair to speak of, and if there were muscles on Scrap’s lean arms, they couldn’t be seen. But in some ways Scrap reminded Josiah a lot of Captain Fikes, and he cautioned himself not to underestimate the boy just because of his apparent scrawniness. Even though Scrap was a new recruit, he seemed ready to jump right into the thick of things.

  Three other men, whom Josiah assumed were Rangers new to Captain Fikes’s command, stood off to the left.

  With companies forming so quickly, it was hard to know who was a Ranger and who wasn’t. No one wore a badge like the sheriff and his deputies. There was no formal uniform as of yet, if there ever would be, and most men were responsible, like Josiah, for obtaining their own weapons, horses, and clothes.

  However, the state did value every Ranger’s horse and promised to replace it with another horse of like value if something should happen to the animal while on duty. They also provided a ration of food and forty dollars a month—which would go a long way in helping raise a young son. A son Josiah dearly missed. The money was important to him, but it came at the cost of being away from home again for long periods of time. Lyle favored Lily in looks and action, and that made some days difficult to stomach.

  The three new Rangers didn’t seem too interested in meeting Josiah.

  Two of them had been sitting at the table, gambling along with Captain Fikes at the Silver Dollar. The third one was a stranger to Josiah, a dark-eyed man with rough hands and pants that still bore creases in them—store-bought and new, which immediately made Josiah a little suspicious of him.

  It only took a brief pause to consider that the man might have just come into the first bit of money he’d seen in a while, once he signed on with the Rangers.

  There was a small sum of money paid up front once enlistment was accepted, and horses were generally being valued at a hundred and twenty to a hundred and sixty dollars. That was quite a roll for a man who, judging from the looks of his hands, was probably accustomed to working on cattle drives.

  One of the Rangers who’d been gambling with the captain mumbled something about meeting up after the way was clear and riding on into Tyler. Then they’d all take the trip back to the Red River to train with the entire company by the end of the week.

  The men were scouts. Used to being alone. They split up after a nod and agreement from Captain Fikes, and disappeared into the crowd that had gathered in front of the jail.

  Torches lit the street like it was noon on a Monday.

  Shadows danced on the hard adobe walls of the jail and on the vacant Alamo, like ghosts milling about, looking for a way home. Horses were nervous. Voices were hushed. No one really moved about much. They all just stood in front of the jail, like they were waiting, hoping, for something else to happen.

  Children in nightclothes huddled in front of their parents, watching the jail intently. A group of little boys caught Josiah’s eye. They were surely hoping to see an explosion for themselves, or a shoot-out between the Rangers and the outlaws.

  That didn’t seem likely to happen. There were no local deputies to be seen in or around the crowd, and Josiah could tell Captain Fikes was growing more tense by the second about J. T. Patterson’s absence.

  “We’ll meet up with those fellas at the intersect of the Old San Antonio Road near Neu-Braunfels in a matter of days. Sooner, if they see trouble lying ahead. That is if we get Charlie Langdon out of here alive,” the captain said.

  “Trouble’s not quelled?” Scrap asked.

  “Hardly,” the captain answered. “Patterson and his men are about as inept as a three-legged hog in humping season. Might have a sympathizer or two in their league if they know anything of Langdon’s war record.” He was staring straight at Josiah.

  Josiah understood the captain’s gaze. He knew Charlie Langdon better than anyone around.

  “Langdon claimed to kill more Union soldiers than any other member of the Texas Brigade. While that may or may not be true, I was among the men of the First Infantry, and Langdon was a respectable soldier who thrived on killing.”

  Pete Feders looked to the ground, kicked a bit of dirt with the toe of his boot.

  “He’s a mad dog, then, who got a taste of blood and liked it,” Scrap said.

  “Maybe that’s it,” Josiah said. “But he saved a lot of men, too. You have to remember how the Texas Brigade worked. They were first in the advance, and then the rear guard in retreat. First in, last out. Only the bravest of the brave can withstand a life of that kind of fighting. Charlie Langdon survived a lot of battles because he was willing to lay down his own life. He fought in Chickamauga, Knoxville, and Suffolk, and probably more that I don’t know of. The Brigade was highly favored by General Lee. Charlie wasn’t a criminal, but he was a cunning soldier, always looking for a way in and a way out. He saved my life more than once.”

  “So, you knew him then, in the war?” Scrap asked. />
  Josiah nodded. “Yes, I was there.”

  “In the Brigade?”

  Josiah nodded again. “But the war’s been over for a long time. What Charlie went on to become afterward has no bearing on his deeds then. The law’s the law. Theft is theft. Murder is murder.”

  “But if there are men in San Antonio that think Charlie is a war hero . . . ?”

  “Or men in the Rangers,” Captain Fikes added.

  “Then we could be up against some unknowns? Some that would do us harm could be within our own ranks?” Scrap said.

  Pete Feders had remained quiet throughout the whole exchange, watching everything around them, noticing anything that moved. Josiah was glad Feders was standing next to him. It had been a long time since he’d been in a group of men where he thought his back was covered.

  “More than one of Charlie’s gang rode with him in the war,” Josiah said. “So he has his followers. But for as many men as he saved, he led ten times that to their death. Those that follow him are loyal out of fear as much as they are out of respect.”

  “Like Burly Smith,” the captain said.

  “I didn’t know him. Never seen him before in my life, so I can’t say if he rode with the Brigade or not. Like I said, what we all did in the war was a long time ago. The Brigade didn’t breed bad men. A lot of them came out and put the badge on and wore it, or still wear it, with pride and honor. Others went back to the farm . . . or just faded away.”

  “I wish I could have been there,” Scrap said.

  Something had caught Pete Feders’s attention. Josiah noticed it, too. The crowd had begun to part. He glanced quickly back at Scrap and said, “No, you don’t.”

  “Well, it’s about damn time,” Captain Fikes said, pushing toward the man Josiah assumed was Sheriff J. T. Patterson.

  CHAPTER 5

  The confrontation between Captain Fikes and Sheriff J. T. Patterson seemed to go on for an hour. Patterson was a short, stout man with a belly shaped like a whiskey barrel. Fikes wasn’t much taller, but he was lean, and a fair fighter with little tolerance for any man who challenged his authority. No one in the crowd had the capacity or, it looked to Josiah, the desire to interfere between the two.

  The men stood inches apart, belt buckle to belt buckle, shouting at each other, cursing at each other, accusing each other of being the cause for the attempted jailbreak.

  When the sheriff called Captain Fikes a Nancy-boy, Josiah thought he’d gone too far. To his credit, the captain restrained himself, though it appeared to be a difficult task. There was no question the captain was particular about his dress and hair, but there was nothing the least bit feminine about Hiram Fikes.

  At one point, Scrap Elliot started to join the captain’s side. “He needs our help,” he said. And just as swiftly as Scrap had started to pull away from the small group of Rangers and jump into the fray, Pete Feders pulled him back like he was a baby bird trying to leave the nest too soon.

  “Captain’ll do just fine on his own, thank you.”

  Scrap was immediately dejected. The young Ranger hung his head down like a ten-year-old and sulked back behind Josiah. “He ain’t no Nancy-boy. Somebody needs to make that polecat take it back,” he muttered.

  It was all Josiah could do to keep a straight face. He had seen a lot of eagerness in new soldiers before, but he couldn’t remember one who seemed to match Scrap’s unbidden enthusiasm. The boy had obviously earned his nickname the hard way.

  Just when Josiah thought Captain Fikes had had enough of Sheriff J. T. Patterson’s tirade and was going to pull back his arm and punch the man square in the jaw, the captain jutted his right hand out, offering a handshake and putting an obvious and immediate end to the dispute.

  A distinct sigh of relief rippled through the surrounding crowd.

  The two men shook hands. Patterson was reluctant, but finally seemed to be glad that the confrontation had come to a fair end. They spoke a few more words that no one could hear or understand, then the sheriff headed inside the jail. Captain Fikes strode back to Josiah, Pete Feders, and Scrap.

  “Damn Austin. This new Ranger law gives the sheriff more power than he ought to rightly have. Especially a fool like Patterson,” the captain said. He was disgusted, but trying to remain reasonably quiet, as he could sense the crowd was dispersing around him cautiously. “He needs to ask for our assistance before we have any jurisdiction. And right now he doesn’t think he needs anything from us. Not one lick of help. Not one Ranger outside the jail. Says we can escort Charlie Langdon out of town, but anything before then is in his hands as far as he’s concerned. Last thing I need right now is word to get back to Major Jones that I’ve stepped out of line and gone up against the new law. Damn it. This just beats all. And calling me a Nancy-boy to boot. Any other time, I’d’ve given him a good fist and introduced him bone-to-flesh to Miss Nancy herself.”

  The captain made a fist, gritted his teeth, and let out a long sigh.

  Josiah was fully aware of the power Major John B. Jones wielded at the moment. Jones was a member of Terry’s Texas Rangers in the War Between the States, had been put in charge of the Frontier Battalion by Governor Coke, and had, as Josiah had learned from Captain Fikes, little tolerance for disorder or showmanship.

  Josiah knew that Hiram Fikes had served under Major Jones in the 8th Infantry—Terry’s Texas Rangers—and fought with him until the last engagement at Bentonville, North Carolina; hence the quick appointment to the rank of captain in the Frontier Battalion. It was interesting now to view a different, political, and uneasily restrained side of Captain Fikes.

  Since the rules were all new to him, Josiah just stood back and watched it all play out, trying to figure where he fit in. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in a fight between a badger and a skunk.

  Josiah snuck in the back way to Clipper’s stall, for fear that there were more of Langdon’s men on the lookout for him.

  Burly Smith was one less man to worry about. Word had come back to the crowd that he’d died from the wound the old Mexican had inflicted on the big man’s throat. Now Josiah was worried about the Mexican’s safety. Regardless of the circumstance, a Mexican killing an Anglo was sure to set some embers ablaze. There’d likely be a posse rounded up.

  Knowing there was nothing he could do, and hoping the captain would be able to keep his old friend Juan Carlos out of trouble, Josiah rolled out his sleeping blankets in the corner and found himself more comfortable on a bed of hay than he thought he would be. Clipper seemed glad for the company, nudging Josiah slightly just after he settled in.

  The familiarity of the open air, the smell of the livery, and Clipper’s acceptance allowed a veil of calmness to fall over Josiah, but he did not slip off to sleep at first, not like in the bath at the Menger.

  The Peacemaker was tucked next to his belly, and his long gun, a Sharps carbine, lay within reach.

  He was a little more comfortable with the Sharps than he was the Colt, but the Sharps had been a constant companion for a matter of years. He knew what to expect when he pulled the trigger. Like everyone else, he had his eye on a new model Winchester, but the purchase of the Peacemaker had put the popular rifle out of his reach, for the moment.

  The Rangers preferred their men to use a Sharps carbine, but Josiah figured once he and a lot of other fellas got a little regular money in their pockets, the Sharps would quickly be replaced by the Winchester by most every man in the Battalion. But for today he’d had enough of guns and blood.

  He closed his eyes, and in his mind he reached out and unfolded a patchwork quilt of memories.

  He kissed each of his girls good night; Fiona first—always first. Then he tickled Claire and Mavis like he always did. The memory of their laughter was his reward for living another day. From there he walked into a tiny room that held his only son, his only living child, and touched Lyle gently on the forehead, asking an unseen and unnamed God to look after his son and Ofelia while he was away. That was his nigh
tly prayer, if it could be called that, his nightly routine.

  Now he could rest.

  Sometime near dawn, Clipper stirred and woke Josiah. Josiah barely moved, just enough to catch his breath and gain his senses.

  Short fingers of dim gray light reached into the livery. A bird whistled and cleared its throat in the distance, then launched into full song, willing, it seemed, the sun to rise so Josiah would have the clarity of vision to see what was coming his way.

  It surprised Josiah that morning was so close to breaking. He had figured Langdon’s men were cowards, comfortable in the ways of darkness, using it as a shield and a weapon. He had expected they might pay him a visit before the night was over.

  He gripped the Peacemaker as quietly and subtly as he could, then flicked open his eyes just in time to see a shadow duck across the gate of the stall.

  Clipper snorted.

  Whoever it was, he was behind Josiah, in between stalls, probably searching each one for his presence.

  He hoped he was far enough in the corner to be out of sight.

  As quietly as he could, Josiah propped himself against the outside wall, pushing himself into a mess of spider-webs, and then fought the instinct to push the crawling critters off his bare arms. There were few things in the world he feared more than a spider. Sneaky, poisonous bastards could leave a good man lame with nothing more than a pinprick bite. He hoped like hell they weren’t brown recluses.

  As slowly and quietly as possible Josiah fully cocked the Peacemaker.

  He’d learned early with the gun that leaving a chamber empty under the hammer was a good idea, almost a necessity, with the Peacemaker. The last thing he needed was a damaged gun that could go off at any time and a hammer that wasn’t functional when he needed it most.