The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Unlike her daughter, at least from a distance, the woman who Josiah assumed was the captain’s wife did look fragile, as if a touch to her face would cause her to shatter like the thinnest glass vase Josiah had ever seen.

  He’d expected the woman to resemble Mayor Kessler in a recognizable way, since they were related, but she looked nothing like the earnest man who’d seen them out of Neu-Braunfels.

  “You, sir, what is your function?” the woman asked Josiah.

  “I am a Ranger who served under Captain Fikes. My name is Josiah Wolfe, ma’am.”

  A quizzical look crossed the woman’s face, deep crevices furrowing her brow. “I do not know any Wolfes in Austin.”

  “I hail from near Tyler. Seerville, actually. I have only come to Austin for the first time on this day.”

  “I see.”

  “I have a letter from Sergeant Feders.” Josiah pulled out of his pocket the letter that Feders had entrusted to him, and offered it to the woman.

  She stared at him coldly. “For me?”

  “If you are the wife of Captain Hiram Fikes.”

  “I am.”

  “Then I am very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she snapped, taking the letter and shoving it into a hidden pocket of the black brocade garb she wore. “And you’re a Ranger, too, I suspect?” She directed the question to Scrap.

  “I am, Mrs. Fikes. It was an honor to know the captain and serve under him, even though it was for just a short time. I just joined up with him a few weeks ago. I hope you will accept my sincerest sympathy.”

  “Why, thank you, young man. Hank always did have a good eye for picking the right sort for his adventures.”

  “Hank, ma’am?” Scrap asked.

  “No one here ever called your captain Hiram. It was an offense to the ears and likely to get you taken out behind the woodshed for a set of lashings you’d soon not forget.”

  Scrap smiled. “I am glad I never made that mistake.”

  Josiah had never seen a more charming, warm side of Scrap Elliot. He wasn’t sure he recognized the well-mannered boy who was speaking. Scrap stood up straight, looked Mrs. Fikes in the eye, and actually acted like he had some sense. Wonders never ceased. Maybe there was hope for Scrap Elliot after all.

  “And what shall I call you, young man?”

  Scrap laughed. “Robert Earl Elliot. But folks all my life tagged me as Scrap if they were my friends. Scrap Elliot, ma’am, that’s what you can call me if it wouldn’t be too presumptuous to assume that we might become friends.”

  “Lord knows I could use all the friends I can get at the moment.” Mrs. Fikes returned Scrap’s smile, then looked to Josiah. “You will need to rest your horses and clean yourselves up before getting on your way, I assume?”

  “Sergeant Feders ordered us to be of service to you and your family, ma’am,” Josiah said. “We will stay here, unless you object, until we receive new orders.”

  The woman studied Josiah and flashed another smile at Scrap. “Yes, Pearl might like the company. There is extra room for you both in the carriage house. Pedro will see to it that you are comfortable.”

  The Mexican manservant nodded at Josiah, implying that he was Pedro.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Josiah said. “Again, I am very sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do to ease your suffering, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Mrs. Fikes looked past Josiah at the group of horses tied to the back of the buckboard. “Is Hank’s horse there?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Josiah said. “That’s Fat Susie in the middle.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Fikes answered over her shoulder as she made a quick turn toward the house. “Shoot her.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The carriage house was well appointed, and large enough for plenty of storage and repairs. It was bigger inside than most barns, and cleaner, too. A four-passenger surrey sat next to a calash with a leather folding top. Beyond the calash sat a platform spring wagon, similar to what Josiah called a buckboard.

  Every inch of every buggy and wagon was without a speck of dust. A fella could have eaten off the freshly swept floor. It must have been a difficult, and surely a constant, feat keeping such a place so tidy, but there was no question that on the captain’s estate everything was kept in its place . . . even dirt.

  Mrs. Fikes obviously ruled over the daily chores with an iron hand, had high expectations, and did not relent in her pursuit of those expectations. There were some similarities to the homes in Neu-Braunfels, now that Josiah thought about it. The captain’s wife sure seemed like a demanding sort.

  Josiah hoped his stay in Austin would be short, hoped Feders would show up soon. It still amazed him that the captain’s home was so . . . grand. He had never taken Hiram Fikes for a wealthy man.

  From the look of things, the captain had had no need to ride hard on the trail like he did—unless he just wanted to. How the money had been made to sustain a piece of property that was just shy of being considered a plantation was not immediately apparent . . . or really any of Josiah’s business . . . but it did make him wonder.

  There were no crops or harvesting equipment to be seen. And the captain had never, in all of the time they spent together, even hinted at any means of making a living other than being a soldier and then a Ranger.

  Josiah had only been on the estate less than an hour, and he’d already experienced far more discomfort than he’d ever expected to. There was no place he would fit in on the land Captain Fikes called home. The captain’s wife had looked at him like he belonged with the dirt. His place was as far away from Austin, and the estate, as possible.

  Josiah stopped the buckboard just inside the double doors of the carriage house, and jumped down, glad to stand on two legs for more than a minute, glad to finally be free of the coffin, swarms of flies, and the ever-present smell of death.

  “There are rooms in the back with fresh bedding, señor,” Pedro said, appearing out of the shadows from behind the buggy. “There is also a place to bathe out behind the barn. Hot water will be waiting for you.”

  “Thank you,” Josiah said, setting about to release the trail horse from the buckboard’s harness.

  “There is no need, señor, I have plenty of stable help here.”

  Josiah looked at Pedro oddly. He may have looked a little like Juan Carlos, but his speech was more Anglo, his Mexican accent less defined, almost impossible to detect. “I was hoping to avoid having Fat Susie shot. She’s a good horse.”

  Pedro lowered his amber brown eyes. “The captain made some choices that were not always welcome here. He chose poorly to pay reverence to an ill-reputed woman his wife despises.”

  “I understand that, but she’s a good horse.”

  “The madam has made her wishes known. I will have the horse taken care of, you need not worry about it.”

  Footsteps came up behind Josiah—he whirled around and came face-to-face with Scrap.

  “Am I interruptin’ something?”

  Josiah shook his head no. “I’m just trying to save the captain’s horse.”

  “I’ll shoot her,” Scrap offered happily.

  Pedro turned his attention to Scrap, looked him up and down, kind of like Mrs. Fikes judging the coffin her husband had been brought home in. The result was the same. Pedro obviously wasn’t impressed with what he saw. His lip curled up, and his eyes hardened. “Ranger Wolfe and I will see that task through, señor. You should concern yourself with a bath. There’s a tub waiting behind the barn.”

  Scrap glared at Pedro, then turned to Josiah. “Did a Mexican just tell me I stink?”

  Josiah couldn’t contain the smile that rose to his face, or the laughter rising deep in his chest. “I think he did.”

  “That’s not funny, Wolfe.”

  “Damn, if it’s not.”

  Pedro had stiffened. He had far more control of himself than Josiah did.

  Scrap started to say something, then obviously thought better of it, an
d stomped off in the direction of the bath.

  Josiah just shook his head, a smile still on his face. “I’m sorry about that, Pedro.”

  “It is of no consequence, Ranger Wolfe. I have dealt with that all of my life, even though I was born and raised far from here. I was never a Mexican loyalist.”

  “I am sorry about that, too.”

  “Don’t be. I have had a very satisfying life serving the captain and his family.”

  Josiah cocked his eyebrow, curious. “What do you know of Juan Carlos?”

  Pedro sighed. “Juan Carlos, you know him?”

  “He saved my life. They wanted to charge him with the killing of a man in San Antonio . . . the man he saved me from, so he had to disappear.”

  “Disappearing is one of Juan Carlos’s many talents. It is a skill he had to develop a long time ago.” Pedro stepped in closer, lowered his voice. “You do not know about him and the captain?”

  “Nothing, other than they were good friends.”

  “Good friends.” Pedro chuckled, then stopped, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone in the carriage house. “They were brothers. Same father. Different mother.”

  “Brothers. I would have never guessed,” Josiah said. “I would have figured you and Juan Carlos were brothers, not Juan Carlos and the captain.”

  Pedro chuckled again. “We are united only by our country of origin. I have long envied Juan Carlos, the errant brother, always in the captain’s shadow, protecting him, doing his bidding. He must be heartbroken that he was not there to save the captain in his hour of need.”

  “I think he is,” Josiah said.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Josiah shook his head no. “It was a good secret, their being brothers.”

  “Only out of necessity, señor. The captain had ambitions. You must be aware of that. Having a half-breed brother reflects poorly on one’s position.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “I expect you will not betray my trust? There are not many who know that truth.”

  Josiah stroked his chin. “No, you have nothing to worry about from me.” He paused, then said, “I don’t mean anything by this, but you sure don’t talk like you look.”

  Pedro nodded, and bestowed a genuine smile in Josiah’s direction. His white teeth, against his bronze skin, gleamed in the sunlight.

  “The madam sent me east for schooling, once she determined I had an inclination for it. I spent six years in Dartmouth. It has been many years ago, and I have been loyal and thankful to the madam ever since. I still maintain my native tongue, though it is looked down upon. It is imperative to know the language here. But I, too, have to be aware of how my actions reflect on the madam and the captain.”

  “Sounds like the captain’s wife has plenty of ambition of her own.”

  “Sí, señor, sí.”

  “That’s good to know,” Josiah said, staring up at the house, glad to be relegated as far from it as possible.

  “Once you get your bath, Ranger Wolfe, you will be expected in the main house for a meal,” Pedro said, almost like he could read Josiah’s mind and mood. “The other one, as well.”

  Josiah looked at Pedro curiously. “The other one?”

  “The one you call Scrap.”

  Josiah dropped his head, looking forward even less to the event now that he was expected to share it with Scrap. But his disappointment only lasted for a second. He jerked his head straight up. “I almost forgot.” He went to the back of the buckboard and began unloading from the surviving trail horse’s leather cargo bags the bread, strudel, cakes, and cheeses Mayor Kessler had sent ahead.

  A door slammed in the house, echoing across the meadow like a gunshot. Josiah started, and reached for his Peacemaker without any thought of what he was doing. The madam, Mrs. Fikes, shouted for Pedro to come. Her voice was shrill, demanding, reaching every inch of the estate, and probably beyond.

  A cold chill traveled down Josiah’s spine. He let go of the gun.

  The Mexican servant stiffened. “No need, Ranger Wolfe, I’ll have the goods brought to the house. Leave them here,” Pedro said, nervously.

  “They’re from the mayor in Neu-Braunfels, the . . . madam’s cousin.” Josiah wasn’t sure what to call the captain’s wife. The madam seemed an awfully strange thing to call a woman.

  Pedro forced a smile. “Come to the main house as soon as you are respectable, but there is no need to hurry.”

  The captain’s wife shouted again. This time, she appeared on the opposite balcony from where Josiah had first spied Pearl; she was leaning over the rail, her right hand at her brow shielding the sun as she looked for Pedro.

  “Good. I’ll need some time,” Josiah said, mainly to himself, watching keenly as Pedro hurried up to the house without saying another word.

  There was something about Pedro that just didn’t set right with Josiah. He just couldn’t figure out what that something was. Or if it really mattered in the first place.

  Scrap was lounging in a steaming bath, smoking a quirley, a hand-rolled cigarette, his head resting on the rim of the wood tub. He opened his eyes briefly when Josiah entered the bathhouse, casting him a quick disapproving glance, then closed his eyes just as quickly as he had opened them.

  Four tubs sat on a wood-planked floor. A roof jutted out, protecting the bathers from the sun and weather. Three-quarter walls rose up on three sides. The back wall was actually the rear of the carriage house, from which Josiah had entered. There was no other way in or out. Red-hot coals from a well-maintained fire flickered in the bottom of a stone fireplace that had been built on the outside wall. A big pot of steaming water hung from an iron bracket in the center.

  Several sets of tables and chairs were scattered about, and there were wood storage closets all along the far wall. Josiah supposed that within the closets there were towels, soaps, and whatever else a man would need to clean himself. He’d been in plenty of hotels that were far less equipped than this place.

  A shave was more than necessary, as far as he was concerned, and he hoped there was a good blade and a mirror stowed away somewhere for his use.

  A short Mexican, one of the men who’d carried the captain’s coffin inside the main house, stood in the corner, obviously to be of service to their needs. He nodded to Josiah when he entered the bath. “Hola,” Josiah said, returning the gesture.

  A full tub was waiting for him, just like Pedro said it would be. He stuck his finger in the water to test it. The temperature was just right.

  “How come you like Mexicans so much, Wolfe?” Scrap asked, sitting up.

  Josiah disrobed, piling his clothes just within reach, along with his gun. He didn’t answer Scrap until he settled fully in the water. He hadn’t told Scrap about Ofelia, and he wasn’t going to now. “Not sure that I like or dislike them any better than I do anybody else. What have you got against them?”

  Scrap ground out the quirley on the rim of the tub. “I don’t know, Wolfe. Maybe it was the Alamo that did it. Sometimes I can’t figure you out . . . if you’re really a Texan like the rest of us or not.”

  The water felt good. Josiah wanted to relax. He’d had his fill of arguing with Scrap . . . which seemed like it had been a constant occurrence since they’d left San Antonio. “There’s a supper in the main house. We’re expected to be there after we get respectable.”

  “Are you?”

  “What, Elliot?”

  “A Texan like the rest of us?”

  “I’m a Ranger. That’s all that matters to you.”

  “It don’t matter to me. Not really. I know what you are.”

  “And what’s that?” Josiah demanded, clenching his fingers under the water. He glanced over to the table his Peacemaker sat on.

  “Ain’t no sense in gettin’ all riled, Wolfe. I’m just pokin’ fun at you. You’re a Texas Ranger, that’s what you are.”

  “Sometimes I sure don’t see what Captain Fikes saw in you, Elliot. I guess I�
�ll have to trust his judgment about you, but I’ll be damned if I know why I should. You’re one of the most obstinate boys I’ve ever come to know.”

  “I’m the best shot this side of Fort Worth. Ain’t no more or less to it than that. The captain needed a good, honest shot, and I was it.”

  Josiah stopped and thought about what Scrap had just said. The only time he’d seen Scrap pull a gun was at the ambush just outside of Austin, and Josiah was so busy fending off the shooters, he didn’t see Scrap shoot anything. Didn’t matter, other than that the two shooters got away. But every other time in his life Josiah had run into a man who claimed to be the best shot around, well, that man was always practicing shooting, always pulling his gun out of the holster as fast as he could. Scrap hadn’t done anything that would back up his claim.

  “We’ll have to see about that sometime, Elliot. But let’s just put this aside for now. I’d like a quiet bath.”

  Scrap started to say something, but Josiah didn’t let him.

  “I’m serious, Elliot, I want to take this damn bath in peace. Put it aside.”

  Scrap shook his head, bit the corner of his lip, then stood up out of the water angrily.

  Before he could cover up, Josiah noticed a multitude of scars on Scrap’s back. There was no mistaking that Scrap’s skin had been permanently disfigured by fire. Hot fire. Nearly all of the kid’s back was affected in one way or another. The scars were old and healed over, but they still looked painful.

  Josiah turned fully away as Scrap grabbed up a towel and covered his back as quickly as he could.

  Josiah closed his eyes, settled down as far as he could into the tub, and tried to let go of his thoughts. But all he could think of was Scrap telling him how his parents had been killed by the Comanche. There was clearly more to that story, probably more than Josiah wanted to know, if the truth be told.

  Just about every time he’d had his fill of Scrap Elliot, the kid seemed to give him a reason to like him a little more. Maybe all he needed was someone to watch out for him and show him how to be a Ranger, and maybe more of a man.