The Rattlesnake Season Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON

  “Very rarely . . . a novel comes along that fulfills all the expectations of the genre while rising to the level of a classic. Larry D. Sweazy’s The Rattlesnake Season combines the slam-bang action of a good Western with the sensitivity of style and depth of character that used to be the hallmark of literary fiction . . . Josiah Wolfe is an American original created by an American original, and the fact that this is the first title in a series catapults this debut novel into the rarefied category of a newly discovered planet.”

  —Loren D. Estleman, Spur Award-winning author of

  The Branch and the Scaffold

  “Raw, wild, and all too human, The Rattlesnake Season is a thundering testament to just how good the Western novel can be. There’s a new Ranger in the town of Old West fiction, folks, and his name is Larry D. Sweazy.”

  —Johnny D. Boggs, Spur Award-winning author of

  Doubtful Canon

  “There’s a new fresh voice in the pages of Western fiction . . . His powerful authentic voice rings steel tough . . . and after you finish his novel, your dentist may have to extract the Texas sand from behind your molars . . . A must read for the Western fan.”

  —Dusty Richards, Spur Award-winning author of

  The Sundown Chaser

  “Larry Sweazy’s novel is a fast paced, hard to put down book, chock-full of unforgettable characters you will be glad you met. It’s what people these days like to call a page-turner.”

  —Robert J. Conley, author of Mountain Windsong

  and vice president of Western Writers of America

  “Larry Sweazy is a writer that does his homework and research and combining that with his story telling will have a good career.”

  —Don Coldsmith, author of The Spanish Bit series

  Titles by Larry D. Sweazy

  Josiah Wolfe, Texas Ranger Series

  THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY Berkley edition / October 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Larry D. Sweazy.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14512-8

  BERKLEY®

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Rose: For believing all along

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the help of a number of people. First and foremost, a heart-felt thanks to Ed Gorman, who asked me to write a short story a few years back with a main character who was a Texas Ranger. Even after living in Texas for nearly five years, I don’t think I would have tackled the Texas Rangers on my own. Thanks again, Ed, for lighting the way.

  There is not enough room here to say thank you to all of my writer friends and family members who helped me over the years, either with a critique or an encouraging word, when I needed it the most. You know who you are.

  Special thanks goes to John Duncklee for helping me with the Spanish translations. Any mistakes are my own.

  I can’t thank Carolyn Morrisroe enough for taking a chance on me, and Sandra Harding and Rick Willett for seeing me through the process.

  And, finally, I can’t ever thank my agent, Cherry Weiner, enough, for sticking with me, and never giving up on me or my work. That means more to me than you know.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It has been argued that there is no other American law enforcement agency as legendary as the Texas Rangers. That argument weighed heavily on my mind as I wrote this book. I have created a fictional character, and at times placed him in a fictional setting, among real people. In doing so, it is my hope that I have captured the essence of the Texas Rangers, and Texas of the 1870s. Hopefully, I have helped tilt the argument further in favor of the Rangers. I have the utmost respect for the Rangers, past and present.

  For historical works concerning the Texas Rangers, the following books served me well, and might be of interest: Lone Star Justice: The First Century of the Texas Rangers, by Robert M. Utley (Berkley 2002); The Texas Rangers: Wearing the Cinco Peso, 1821-1900, by Mike Cox (Forge 2008); Six Years with the Texas Rangers, 1875-1881, by James B. Gillet (Bison Books 1976); and A Private in the Texas Rangers: A. T. Miller of Company B, Frontier Battalion , by John Miller Morris (Texas A&M Press 2001).

  PROLOGUE

  July 1872

  The midwife, a short, rotund Mexican woman, who went by the n
ame of Ofelia, stood over Lily’s lifeless body and shook her head. “She is dead, señor.”

  There was no blood, no struggle. Lily did not have the strength to bear a child. She had battled for days between the labor of childbirth and the onset of influenza. She lay flat on the bed, her belly protruding, beads of sweat still on her forehead. A bowl of steaming hot water sat next to the bed, and the room was filled with an odd sour odor.

  Josiah Wolfe could barely breathe. He staggered to the bed, past Ofelia’s helper, a scrawny young thing with saucer-shaped brown eyes, rimmed with tears, that the midwife referred to as niña, girl, and never by name.

  Lily’s skin was still warm to the touch.

  He closed his wife’s dull eyes and kissed her forehead without fear of contracting the sickness. Life was too painful. He was willing to die that very moment himself, willing to join his wife in the land of heaven, even though he was not much of a believer. Not now. Redemption and resurrection seemed to be nothing more than a folktale. The sickness had shown no mercy, a devil that could not be fought. Where was God’s hand in all of this? Josiah had wondered more than once, especially after the preacher man from Tyler had refused to come to the house out of fear for his own health and well-being.

  Josiah Wolfe had never felt so empty, or so angry, in his entire life. It seemed that death was everywhere he looked. He ran out of the house yelling, screaming, venting his rage into the darkness of the night.

  A coyote answered back, mocking him.

  He fell to the ground in a bundle of tears and spit, and began to pound the dirt. He didn’t know how long he was there, how long it was before someone laid a hand on his shoulder. It was only minutes, but seemed like eternity.

  “The baby lives, señor, but we do not have much time.” Ofelia stood over him, staring down with the eyes of a sad mother. “I cannot reach the feet.”

  Josiah caught his breath, filled his lungs, but he could not speak. Everything seemed so hopeless—even the suggestion that life somehow still existed did not, could not, touch his heart.

  “I will need a butchering knife to save the baby,” Ofelia said. “Can you get it for me?”

  Ofelia’s voice sounded like it was coming out of a well, even though the wind had whipped up, pelting his face with dry Texas dirt. In a stupor, he pulled himself up, staggered to the barn, and found his skinning knife. Ofelia grabbed the knife from his hand and disappeared back into the pine cabin that once held his dreams and love, but now only held the lifeless body of his one and only Lily.

  By the time he returned to his marriage bed, there was blood everywhere.

  The niña could not take the sight of Ofelia cutting open Lily’s belly—she had run from the foul-smelling room in a panic when she saw the midwife’s intent. Josiah could barely stand the sight himself. He stopped and hunkered in the corner, his eyes glazed with tears, his stomach in tatters.

  Candles flickered on the table next to the bed, and Ofelia muttered under her breath as she slit Lily’s pure white skin. It took Josiah a minute to realize that the woman was praying. “Perdoneme, Dios . . .” Forgive me, God.

  After making a long cut down the center of the stomach, Ofelia motioned for Josiah to come to her. “I will need your help, señor.”

  Josiah’s knees and hands were trembling. He could not look at Lily’s lifeless face, or bring himself to speak. The words I can’t were stuck in his throat.

  “Pronto, señor.”

  Ofelia shook her head with frustration and mumbled a curse word under her breath. The knife tumbled to the floor. Josiah had never seen so much blood in his life. He wanted to scream at the Mexican woman and make her stop—but he knew she was doing the right thing. The baby deserved a chance to live. Lily would want him to fight, to do whatever was necessary to save their child.

  Slowly, Josiah made his way to the side of the bed.

  Ofelia took his hands gently into hers and guided them to Lily’s belly. “I am sorry, señor, this must be done to save your baby. You must pull back the skin with all your strength.”

  Josiah took a deep breath, fighting back the bile that was rising from the depths of his throat.

  In a swift motion, Ofelia thrust her hands deep inside Lily, tussled and turned her arms, and just as quickly, pulled a nearly lifeless baby up and out of the body. She placed the baby, all covered in blood and dark blue as a stormy summer sky, on the bed and cut the cord.

  Josiah staggered back as Ofelia swatted the baby on the behind. Nothing happened. It looked dead. She swatted again. And again nothing. Finally, she blew into the baby’s mucus-covered mouth and smacked the baby on the back, just between the shoulder blades. The baby coughed and heaved, and began to cry.

  “You have a son, señor. You have a son.”

  CHAPTER 1

  May 1874

  Josiah Wolfe sat atop his Appaloosa stallion, Clipper, and watched a rooter skunk push through a dry creek, searching for anything that moved or anything that held the slightest hint of green.

  The skunk, black with a broad white stripe down its back and a nose that looked like it ought to be on a hog, didn’t see the four-foot-long diamondback rattlesnake sunning itself on the bright side of a big boulder a few yards ahead of it.

  Wolfe rubbed the butt of his gun, a .45 single-action Peacemaker, then thought better of interfering. He’d wait it out, see what happened next, though his betting side told him not to count out the skunk.

  He gently edged the stallion back up the trail so he’d be downwind when all hell broke loose.

  The snake hissed and wiggled its tail, setting its alarm in motion, but that didn’t seem to deter the hognose. In the blink of an eye the skunk recoiled and without warning jumped straight at the snake, capturing it just behind the eyes with a determined set of iron jaws.

  There was no time for the snake to spit or smell the foul stink that escaped from the skunk’s defensive gland. Without so much as a shiver, the reptile succumbed with no chance of a fair fight, its head smashed flatter than a johnnycake. The rattle quickly subsided, a tiny echo in the wind, like the last bell ringing on a funeral coach.

  Josiah had little use for snakes or skunks, and even less for their human counterparts.

  If it wasn’t for one such critter, Charlie Langdon, he’d be home right now, readying the hard ground for planting even though the dry north winds had yet to stop blowing.

  Winter had been slow to let go, and spring was hesitant to come on fully—not that winter was much of a worry in East Texas, not like in the Dakotas, but the wind still raged cold and fierce at times, and the leaves still fell off the trees.

  Once in a blue moon, snowflakes fell from the sky on Christmas. But spring was near . . . The smell of renewal was in the air, and honestly, Josiah Wolfe wished more than anything that he was back home to welcome it, instead of being on the trail to bring a killer to justice.

  Josiah watched the skunk drag the snake off, probably to a den nearby loaded with babies whose hungry mouths and eyes had yet to see the light of day.

  He had been on and off the trail since the day he had become a lawman within the confines of Seerville, the town where he’d been born and raised. Like his father before him, Josiah had worn the marshal’s badge. Life was fine until the town up and died, when the railroad curved and went through Tyler instead. There wasn’t much left to marshal after nearly everyone moved on or was foreclosed on. But Josiah had the deed to the family homestead, and pulling up stakes was something he wouldn’t consider—not with all his kin buried on the back forty.

  He wasn’t much of a farmer, and his land wasn’t real hospitable to much of anything of use, since most of it was floodplain and swamp, but he made do with what he had.

  When the opportunity to become a Ranger came his way, he’d leapt at the chance. Josiah had listened to tales about the Rangers since he was a little boy, peering from behind the cupboard when he should have been tucked in bed, as his father and his deputies gathered around the fire and sipped
whiskey.

  The heroics of the Texas Rangers in the Cherokee War in 1839, and the Battle of Plum Creek, when more than a thousand Comanche warriors were faced down, were seared into Josiah’s memory. Not long ago, after Reconstruction, the Rangers had fallen out of favor, replaced by the Texas State Police—a halfhearted unit, formed by then Governor Davis, that was never afforded the respect of the Rangers.

  The Rangers still existed during that time, but they weren’t funded very well, or at all, and mostly disappeared. But word went out that the newly elected Democrats, and specifically the new governor, Richard Coke, in Austin had recommissioned the Rangers, giving them more stature and power, and a healthy budget.

  Six companies, consisting of seventy-five men each, were quickly being assembled. Now that this Frontier Battalion was being formed, the Rangers would be responsible for the whole state, and not just for responding to the Indian troubles in the West.

  Josiah had ridden in a posse with Captain Hiram Fikes in the years since Reconstruction took hold, and when Fikes heard that Seerville no longer needed a marshal, he’d sent word to Josiah that he would be a welcome addition to the company of former Rangers who were to cover East Texas.

  Josiah would be an official Ranger—which seemed odd, considering their lack of real organization in the recent past. He’d be on the dockets, something more than a side-kick to Captain Fikes, helping out when he was called on by the shadowy group of men who had called themselves Rangers during the years after the War Between the States.