The Rattlesnake Season

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Scrap had made his way to the church with the parade of mourners, but Josiah had hung back and trailed after the funeral coach surrounded by strangers. He avoided contact with Mrs. Fikes, Pedro, Pearl, and Feders, delaying that event for as long as possible.

  He searched every face that came into close proximity to him, determined not to be surprised or ambushed again. It was not beyond Charlie Langdon to send his men into a crowd of mourners and pose an attack.

  If there was a hell, Charlie Langdon would surely burn in it.

  The sky had opened up, and it rained steadily. All Josiah had to keep himself dry was his hat. Oddly, he didn’t care. The temperature had cooled, and the rain felt good . . . cleansing.

  The church overflowed with mourners, and Josiah was not quite inside, not outside, barely able to hear the parting words of the captain’s admirers, the two preachers who had led the coffin inside, and the dignitaries who spoke about the captain’s contributions to the state of Texas with his bravery, valor, and pure instincts as a soldier and leader. The captain’s wife wept openly, supported by the governor when they were called to stand and pay tribute. The governor’s own wife had been relegated to a pew behind him.

  Josiah spied Sheriff Farnsworth sitting in a packed pew, three rows behind the governor and Mrs. Fikes. Farnsworth had looked Josiah right in the eye as they passed each other, but otherwise the sheriff did not even acknowledge Josiah’s presence. No matter, Josiah thought to himself, sure that the sheriff was fuming about his position in the pew, certain that it was below his assumed station in life.

  Everywhere Josiah looked, there were men he did not recognize, did not know, wearing their finest suits of clothes, their beards and mustaches trimmed and shaped perfectly.

  It amazed him that people felt the need to get all gussied up to enter a church. Not that he was a heathen—but he was still angry at the preacher man who’d refused to minister to Lily when she lay dying. Lily was a true believer. But the preacher broke her heart, protecting himself from the sickness, not allowing God to come into the cabin, to give her a bit of comfort, in her hour of need. After all he’d seen and done, Josiah’s days of pondering about God were pretty much over.

  People coughed and rustled about inside the church.

  Josiah was stuck on the steps in the middle of the crowd, trapped and surrounded by mourners wearing wet wool coats. The stink was almost unbearable.

  The wind was constantly blowing, but it had let up from its initial blast. The rain, on the other hand, continued to come down in sheets, able to fill buckets in minutes. Thunder boomed. Lightning danced overhead. Trees were wrested back and forth, tender new leaves flittering to the ground like it was autumn instead of spring.

  It was a bad day to be buried, a worse day to die and meet your maker. Nature was upset, angry, intent on inflicting as much misery as possible, impeding every movement of every human being standing outside the church, soaking them all to the bone.

  Through it all, Josiah stood still, his eyes forward, no longer thinking about the captain, or heaven, or God, never taking his eyes off the flow of blond hair careening over the slumped shoulders of a woman he had briefly kissed, and now had most certainly betrayed in such an unredeemable way that he doubted he could ever look her in the eyes again.

  There must have been three hundred mourners standing in the cemetery as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Water flowed into the captain’s grave, and Pedro finally had to direct two of his men to jump down and bail out the hole before the coffin could be lowered inside.

  Josiah’s feet were stuck in the mud. He could see through the crowd. The Mexicans jumping down into the hole. The horrified look on Pearl’s face. The preacher man standing at the head of the grave, his hands clasped across his waist, a Bible securely in his grasp, his head down, rainwater dribbling off the brim of his round-topped black wool hat. Beyond the preacher man was more of a crowd, more unknown faces, more gray swirling skies, more drenching rain.

  The words “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” drifted over the crowd, the preacher’s voice booming, confident, and certain of the righteous implications intoned at the end of each and every word, steady as a metronome.

  Josiah stared straight ahead, watching the mourners around the grave as best he could, even when the call to prayer came, the order from the preacher to bow their heads.

  He felt something push against his back, and thought nothing of it for the first second, until he felt a hot breath on the back of his neck.

  “Don’t move, Wolfe. All you need to do is listen.” There was an Irish twang to the voice. It was so hushed and so low, Josiah had to strain to hear it, but he was almost certain he knew who the person was sticking a gun in his back. The tracker. O’Reilly.

  “Just keep yer arms to yer side, like they are,” the voice continued. “I got a message from Charlie for ya. He says if ya want to see your son again, then you best head east.”

  Josiah stiffened, flinched when the man mentioned his son.

  “Don’t go doin’ anything stupid now, Wolfe. Just keep your mouth shut. If I don’t show back up in a short amount of time to Charlie, he will do something he hates doin’. You know what that is. He said to remember Vicksburg. Only this won’t be no accident. Wasn’t then either if I know Charlie.”

  The preacher’s voice boomed, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.” Thunder cracked overhead, matching the boom of the commandment. Rain continued pounding down from the sky, mud splattering, like blood, as it hit the ground hard.

  Josiah stared straight ahead, the barrel of the gun digging deeper into his back. Vicksburg was deposited deep in his memory. He had not forgotten it—but as with most of his wartime escapades, the memory had faded with time.

  He recalled how the Brigade had stumbled across a farmhouse, and Josiah and Charlie had been given reconnaissance orders. That happened a lot, Josiah and Charlie being paired together, even though Josiah objected as often as was prudent.

  They waited until dusk and then sneaked up on the lone farmhouse through the barn. A boy, no more than ten, who had obviously seen them, grabbed his pa’s old long gun and fired off a shot at them as they crawled toward the house.

  The boy had a good aim, and almost hit Charlie, but he didn’t think ahead and hide himself very good. Charlie caught sight of the boy, and didn’t think, or stop to think, or probably care that it was a child shooting at them, trying to protect what belonged to his pa, who was probably off to war himself. Charlie fired even though Josiah yelled for him not to. He hit the boy, who was hiding on the roof in the shadow of a dormer, killing him with one shot to the chest.

  Josiah could never forget the thump of the boy as he hit the ground or his dead blue eyes, staring upward in defeat, as Josiah rushed forward with help that was too late.

  Charlie Langdon didn’t shed a tear, didn’t even stop to see what he had done. He charged into the farmhouse ready to kill anything that moved. But the house was empty. The boy was alone. His family was either dead, or just lucky to be gone.

  “Sure do hate killin’ a child,” Charlie had said after they’d returned to camp. Then he’d gone off and celebrated.

  Josiah saw that boy’s face in his nightmares for a long time. There was no way he could forget Vicksburg—and no way he would let Lyle fall victim to Charlie Langdon’s evil hand.

  “Charlie ain’t goin’ to wait forever. You and him got some unfinished business. Now, nod if you understand.”

  Josiah did as he was instructed.

  “Good. Once I pull this gun away, count to ten. You don’t, these fine people standing around might find themselves in a cross fire, and die ’cause you ain’t got no sense. Understand?”

  The pressure of the gun barrel withdrew from Josiah’s back. He started to count, but stopped at two.

  The hot breath returned. “One other thing. Come alone.” Then the vile-smelling breath was gone again.

  Josiah remained frozen, waited a second or two, then cocked
his head slowly, just in time to see a flash of red hair disappear into the sea of black.

  When he turned his gaze back to the grave, the preacher was making the symbol of the cross from his head to his chest, staring directly at Josiah.

  CHAPTER 26

  Major John B. Jones was another Ranger who did not originally hail from Texas. He was born in South Carolina, and the evidence of his place of birth could easily be detected in his speech.

  “My sincere apologies, ma’am,” he said in a slow drawl after the funeral, doffing his hat to Pearl just inside the portico. He slipped his arm into hers and escorted her inside, chatting in a soft, but direct, voice. Pearl looked numb, her manners mindless. Josiah watched from afar.

  It was the first time he had ever seen the major, but he had heard plenty about the man whose charge it was to head up the Texas Rangers that Governor Coke had reinvigorated.

  Jones had come to Texas, like a lot of men, via the War Between the States. He joined the Eighth Texas Cavalry, better known to most folks as Terry’s Texas Rangers, since they were commanded by Benjamin Franklin Terry, a war hero in his own right. Jones didn’t spend his entire enlistment with the Rangers, but he had a respectable career in the war.

  There was no question that Jones was, at the very least now, an honorary Texan, after briefly serving in the state legislature. Governor Coke had appointed him head of the Frontier Battalion, assured that the man was as trustworthy as he was demanding.

  Jones was a head shorter than Josiah, dressed impeccably in proper funeral attire, his matching thick, solid black hair shining with fresh pomade. His mustache was as thick as a big man’s thumb, a perfect V drooping over his lips, trimmed to perfection. At forty years old, Jones had yet to marry, and had a wide reputation for appreciating a beautiful woman in one town and then a new one in the next. The major had his fair share of enemies as well as admirers, as could be expected for a man with such a predatory and untamable drive.

  It was no surprise, then, that upon entering the captain’s home himself, Josiah found the major in the parlor, conversing with Pearl, who looked like a trapped sheep, penned in the corner, holding a glass of some refreshment or another, looking eagerly over the major’s solidly squared shoulder for an escape.

  Josiah hadn’t intended on rescuing Pearl, but once she made eye contact with him he saw he would have no choice.

  Her face was pale and tearstained, even though she had done her best to get rid of any sign of crying. There was no question she continued to suffer from the events of the day, and forcing a polite ear to the major looked to be beyond her capabilities.

  As Josiah moved toward her, he thought about how his son Lyle’s life was now at risk, threatened. He could barely breathe, could barely think straight. In fact, Josiah’s first inclination, after O’Reilly gave him Charlie’s message during the funeral, was to jump on Clipper and head for home as fast as possible. But the crowd had waylaid him, and he was stuck in the mass of umbrellas for what seemed like an hour, until he broke free of the crowd of mourners just in front of the captain’s house.

  The trip from Austin to south of Tyler was a two-hundred-mile ride. Josiah knew the best route for him to take would be a fast ride up the cattle-worn Chisolm, then cross over east to Fort Parker, angle on up to the Moscoso’s Trail near the abandoned Fort Houston, head north, and then on to home. It was a three-day trip at the minimum, full-out. He hoped Clipper was up to it.

  But no matter the urgency, a trip like that took a little planning. And there were also his duties as a Ranger to consider.

  He hadn’t received new orders from Feders, hadn’t even spoken to the man yet. Not only would fleeing home without speaking to Feders have been a quick end to his reputation, it would also have been bad form not to make himself known to Major Jones. He remained less concerned about the offenses he had committed toward Mrs. Fikes, but he also didn’t want her as his enemy.

  It was not purely out of ambition that he concerned himself with meeting the major. It was also the rescue of Pearl, and his need for his fellow Rangers and their help—even though O’Reilly had told him to come alone. That was not going to happen.

  He was not a fool, not enraged enough by the threat of losing Lyle to completely vanquish his senses. He wasn’t going to walk into a trap set by Charlie Langdon without someone covering his back, and his guess was Charlie knew that full well.

  The other possibility that Josiah needed to consider was that the message was not true at all, but a ruse to get him out and away from the proceedings at the Fikes home, an emotional response that would leave him more than vulnerable—alone on the trail, to be surrounded by a gang of outlaws from which there would be no escape. Charlie Langdon might not be anywhere near Seerville, or the pine cabin just outside of town. He might be just outside of Austin, lying in wait for Josiah to do something ignorant.

  Josiah wasn’t sure how he was going to work things out, but he knew, as much as he possibly could at the moment, that he wasn’t going to rush off half-cocked. That would get him—and maybe Lyle—killed for certain.

  “Excuse me, Major Jones,” Josiah said, tapping gently on the shoulder the man cornering Pearl.

  Jones whirled around quickly, his dark blue eyes narrowing, the pupils barely visible, casting a gaze that made his face look squirrel-like, his eyes beadier than they normally might be. “What, good man? Can’t you see I am in the midst of consoling this poor grief-stricken girl?”

  “I beg your pardon, Major Jones, but I believe I have some information that needs your immediate attention.”

  “What kind of information?” Jones asked, his voice indignant. Then he looked Josiah over head to toe like Josiah was at a guard mount being judged fit for duty. “And who are you anyway to be intruding on this tragic day?”

  The rainstorm had continued to rage outside, and Josiah’s clothes were soaking wet. His shirt clung to his chest, his boots squished when he walked. Comfort had left his person early in the day—after coming face-to-face with the Negro.

  Being presentable was about as important to him at the moment as being polite to Mrs. Fikes, who was standing a few feet away from him, leaning forward on a divan, using it to steady herself as she feigned a conversation with her cousin, the mayor from Neu-Braunfels, A. L. Kessler. Kessler nodded at Josiah, recognizing him, and Mrs. Fikes glared at Josiah like he was the most hated man alive.

  Before Josiah could reply to Major Jones, Pearl stepped forward. “His name is Josiah Wolfe, sir. One of your very own, Major. A fine Texas Ranger who rode many miles at my father’s trusted side.” Her voice was soft, but there was an air of agitation thinly coated on her sweet Texas tongue.

  Jones caught his breath, swallowed whatever words were forming on his lips, which most assuredly were not going to be kind, judging from the sudden twist of his face, and said, “I see. My apologies, Ranger Wolfe. We have not yet met in person, but your reputation precedes you.”

  Then he offered his hand, which Josiah gave a firm shake, which the major returned tepidly.

  Josiah withdrew his hand quickly.

  “If you two fine gentleman will excuse me,” Pearl said, coming to a stop away from the corner, directing her attention toward a path free of human obstruction to the curving, rising staircase, just beyond them and adjacent to the main entrance of the house. “I have had a very long day and feel the need to excuse myself from your company.”

  Major Jones nodded and lowered his head. “Yes, of course. I would hope to make your acquaintance at some other time. Perhaps under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Of course,” Pearl said quickly, turning to Josiah. “And I hope to see you again, Josiah, before you depart. I assume you will be receiving a new set of orders soon?”

  “I assume so,” Josiah answered, ignoring both the major and Mrs. Fikes’s twin glares of consternation when he spoke with Pearl.

  “Be careful, then, in your travels.”

  “I will,” Josiah said, looking to the doo
r. “Thank you.”

  Pearl stood staring at Josiah for a moment, then made her way to the staircase, stopping only briefly to again study Josiah, who was still avoiding her gaze, before disappearing completely upstairs. She had obviously detected his discomfort in her presence and was trying to determine its cause. The look on Pearl’s face was not difficult to understand, even to a man of Josiah’s experience. It was one of confusion . . . and hurt.

  Josiah watched her vanish from view, out the periphery of his vision, with a heavy heart, regretful that he felt it necessary to put an emotional wall up to Pearl at an obvious time of need. Guilt was going to be a dark companion.

  “This information, Wolfe, had better be important,” Major Jones said.

  “I believe it is, sir. It concerns the man I think is responsible for the premature and senseless death of Captain Fikes, and I would feel much better if we were able to speak in private.”

  A half-full bottle of brandy sat on the captain’s desk. The room was dark, heavy curtains pulled to a tight close, and there was a musty smell in it, like it had been sealed off for a long time. Three lamps flickered, the smell of kerosene a potent mix from the lack of use. One entire wall was lined with bound books of a number Josiah had never seen in his entire life. He wondered if the captain had read all of them, spent nights alone under the lamp, sipping on a drink, smoking a cigar. It was not an image of Captain Fikes he could conjure in his mind . . . He could only see the captain sitting happily at the gambling table in San Antonio, a pile of his opponents’ chips before him. Since arriving in Austin, he had yet to resolve the conflict of the man, the Ranger, he thought he knew so well.

  Josiah coughed when he entered the room, an odd scratch forming in his throat. Even though it was an uncharacteristic desire, he made his way to the brandy, poured himself a glass, downed it in one gulp, and let the warmth pervade throughout his body.