The Rattlesnake Season Page 11

  “I have news about Captain Fikes,” Josiah continued. “Hiram Fikes. I am told you are an acquaintance, and a cousin of the captain’s wife.”

  The mayor made direct eye contact with Josiah, giving up his curiosity about what lay beyond him immediately upon hearing the captain’s name.

  All of the anger disappeared from Kessler’s narrow face. “Bad news, did you say?”

  “Yes, sir. The captain is dead. He was killed in a gun battle, fighting valiantly, trying to keep the people of Texas safe from the despicable outlaw Charlie Langdon.”

  What color there was in Kessler’s face drained quickly away, leaving him ashen, his pale blue eyes paler. Tears did not come to the man’s eyes, but they looked glassier than before.

  “I always feared it would come to this. When did this happen?”

  “Early this morning. We were transporting Langdon from San Antonio to Tyler for trial,” Josiah said.

  Kessler began shaking his head. “It’s an exciting time for the Rangers. Was for Hiram, too. Such poor timing. And the body?”

  “I was instructed to stop here to make the announcement of the captain’s death by my fellow Ranger, Pete Feders, and then see the captain home to Austin for a proper burial. Feders said his kin would appreciate that. It would be expected.”

  “Ah, Feders. He is a good man.” There was a hint of the stagecoach woman’s pronunciation, gute, in the mayor’s way of speaking. “He is correct. Hiram deserves to be given every opportunity at the entrance of heaven. A man like him will most definitely be in need of a proper church burial. Where is Feders?”

  “He went after Langdon and those other scoundrels that freed him. I expect to meet up with him in Austin. We lost another Ranger, Vi McClure. Do you know of him?”

  “Never heard of him. Another Ranger killed, too.” Kessler shook his head no.

  Scrap cleared his throat at the mention of McClure.

  Josiah was sure he heard the word “traitor” in Elliot’s grumble, but he ignored it. There was no need to spread curiosity about McClure’s guilt or innocence at the moment, as far as Josiah was concerned.

  “McClure’s fate, and involvement in the incident, is uncertain at the moment. The only proof that lies before us is a vague bit of witnessing. Divining the truth will take some time . . . if it is possible at all. None of which will bring the captain back to us. The sad truth is that Texas has lost one of her greatest sons,” Josiah said.

  “All right, so it is,” Kessler said, almost exasperated. His breathing had quickened slightly after Josiah told him of the captain’s fate. “This is bad news, indeed. Go to the livery and wait there. After I stir the telegraph operator at the Western Union office and have him make the proper notifications, I will wake the undertaker and have him get a coffin ready for Hiram’s body. We’ll get you a buckboard to make the rest of the trip. It will be ready to go first thing in the morning. That should be easier than wearing poor Fat Susie thin to the bone with Hiram thrown deadweighted over the saddle.”

  Josiah tipped his hat. “My condolences, sir. This is a hard loss for us all. The captain was a hero . . . and a true friend, of which I have had very few.”

  “To some, that is true,” A. L. Kessler said, easing his front door to a close. He stopped just before the door latched, peering through the crack, and said, “But there will be others who will happily celebrate when they hear the news of Hiram Fikes’s untimely death. Mark my words. There will be a grand celebration in some corners of this state. Grand celebrations, indeed.”

  Morning broke, and Josiah awoke in the livery, where he had stowed away comfortably on a bed of straw in the corner of Clipper’s stall.

  The promise of an unknown soft mattress never came from Kessler, and all things considered, Josiah preferred to sleep in a barn.

  A night’s sleep had done him good, and his rest had been void of dreams or nightmares. But he could not help but think of the night he spent in the livery in San Antonio, and he wondered if Juan Carlos knew Captain Fikes was dead. The old Mexican had saved his life, and Josiah felt indebted to the man. He hoped he would see the day when the opportunity arose to repay that debt.

  Clipper was standing steadily in the opposite corner of the stall, comfortable and at ease. Outside the sun had barely peaked over the horizon, and the blue sky did not look like it was going to last very long.

  Thick gray clouds were marching in from the west quickly, hungrily gnawing away at the clear sky in the east. A spring storm was brewing. The only question remaining was whether it was going to be a quick downpour or an all-day event, making the trail from Neu-Braunfels to Austin a challenging course of muddy ruts and further delay.

  Navigating a buckboard with a coffin tied on the bed was going to be a feat of its own on dry ground, but Josiah was not particularly looking forward to the coming day now that he saw the clouds, heard the thunder rumble low, and smelled the promise of rain in the air.

  Scrap had spent the night in the next stall.

  Josiah could hear low murmurs of conversation and quickly learned, when he stood and dusted the night off himself, that Scrap was talking with the liveryman.

  “I saw it sure as day. McClure aimed square at the captain and pulled the trigger without a blink or a warning. It was cold-blooded is what it was. One shot to the chest, just above the heart. Then he set Charlie Langdon free and the two of them just about got away without a scratch, but Sam Willis got a shot off, hitting McClure in the leg. I sure as heck hope the gang dumped him and the traitor is dead by now,” Scrap said with a bit of glee in his voice.

  The liveryman, a fair-haired and smooth-faced kid who was probably a few years younger than Scrap and hardly a man at all, was completely enamored by the tale. His eyes were glued to Scrap. He was listening intently to an account by a Ranger about another Ranger’s death that he thought just had to be true.

  This is how legends and lies get started, Josiah thought to himself. The truth wasn’t entirely known to anyone, but the spinning of vicious perception had already begun. He was disappointed in Scrap, but not surprised in the least.

  “I woulda jumped the scoundrel and dry-gulched him. Killed him with a single punch to the throat,” the liveryman said. “Then I’d be a hero, like one of those new dime novels I just got myself.”

  “If you could have gotten close enough. They was fast, and it was dark, just the glow of the embers from the fire to light your vision,” Scrap answered.

  Josiah had eased up behind the two. “Which means you could be mistaken, Ranger Elliot, am I not right in that thought?”

  Scrap stiffened. The two were sitting on a bale of straw, just inside the open barn doors that faced Main Street. The town of Neu-Braunfels was quick to wake up. A few delivery wagons were already on their rounds, and the mercantile stood open, ready for business.

  A breeze snaked inside the livery, bringing further proof of the coming storm, blowing up straw and the stink of manure with it.

  Scrap remained sitting, but the liveryman jumped up and faced Josiah. He looked like a little boy who had just been caught stealing a piece of candy.

  “I’ve got to tend to my chores. Don’t tell Mr. Hickam that I wasn’t doin’ what I’m supposed to.”

  Hickam’s Livery was one of the most well-kept liveries that Josiah had ever seen. It did not look to him like idleness was well tolerated, and judging by the reaction of Scrap’s sole audience member, he was probably right. The boy tripped over a bucket of oats—but managed not to spill any—and recovered, then turned back and grabbed the bucket, and hurried off like he was half scared silly.

  “You shouldn’t be doing that,” Josiah said.

  “What?” Scrap’s jaw was tight. “Talking to you is like talking to a big ol’ rock. I’m just wonderin’ out loud if what I saw was really what I saw, since you made me question it. I was telling my story, that’s all.”

  “The captain has family here. Word will get back to them how he was killed soon enough. But let it com
e from Feders if you will. No sense in contributing to a lie if that’s the case.”

  Scrap bolted up and turned to face Josiah. “What did I ever do to you?”

  The outburst took Josiah by surprise. “Nothing.”

  “I ain’t a liar.”

  “I didn’t say you were. But once your story gets into somebody else’s head, it becomes their story, and soon enough, there isn’t any truth to it at all. It’s a lie.”

  “Well, you sure ain’t very friendly. We’re Rangers. You’re supposed to have my back and I’m supposed to have yours.”

  “You don’t need to worry about your back.”

  “Don’t feel that way.”

  “You’ve been a Ranger for what, two days?”

  “Nearly three weeks. I was with the captain when he caught up with Charlie Langdon. I was there—you know that. I helped.”

  Josiah looked away and in a low voice said, “I was riding with Captain Fikes before your head breached your momma’s waistband.”

  “Yeah, so? You’re older than I am. I bet I’m a better shot than you are.”

  Josiah took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to be goaded into a shooting match with a storm brewing and a dead body to cart to Austin. He had nothing to prove to Scrap Elliot. “It doesn’t matter. It’s been a hard ride, Elliot, that’s all. We’ve still got a ways to go. The last thing I want to be doing with my time is arguing with you.”

  “It sure doesn’t feel that way.”

  “It is that way. Now gather up your things, and let’s get ourselves over to the undertaker’s, and get on with this before the storm forces us to stay back another day. I’d like to get to Austin as soon as possible.” So I can rid myself of you and find some older, more reliable Rangers, Josiah thought to himself.

  Scrap Elliot was really getting under his skin.

  Scrap nodded. “I’m not a liar,” he muttered, repeating himself, as he walked past Josiah, toward the stall he’d spent the night in. “I know what I saw.”

  Josiah just let him babble. There was no use trying to make a point with the hardheaded kid.

  Even if Vi McClure did turn out to be an outlaw, Josiah didn’t want the world passing judgment before justice got its own chance to make the truth known. But he doubted that what he wanted would matter in the end. The story of Captain Hiram Fikes’s death had already been set loose.

  The wind was really riled up, and small drops of rain had started to pepper down from the roiling clouds overhead.

  The morning had turned a little cooler than it had been in the previous days, so Josiah prepared for the worst and put on his slicker. Back in the war, the slickers were called gum blankets—regardless, he was glad to have it in his possession, now that the clouds were bursting open. The coat would go a long way toward keeping him dry.

  For outerwear Scrap wore a regular duster and nothing else other than his well-worn hat. He grumbled something unintelligible when he saw Josiah don his waterproof long coat. The air between the two had not recovered since they left the livery. Neither had made an attempt, and Josiah was in no mood to make nice in the rain. He had a job to do, a completely different one than he’d originally started out with, and he wanted to do it—and nothing else. Including breaking in a greenhorn Ranger.

  They eased both their horses to a stop at the undertaker’s.

  Josiah tied up Clipper to the post and looked to the sky. “This is not going be enjoyable.”

  Scrap glared at him. “No, sirree, it sure ain’t.”

  The undertaker had a small shop just across the street from the civic square. A few finished coffins lined the outside wall. A separate entrance to the office stood off the boardwalk, and a lamp burned brightly inside.

  Across the street, a gazebo with a dome top painted gold sat directly opposite the door of the undertaker’s. It sat next to a whitewashed church, with a tall steeple rising, and almost disappearing, into the low clouds.

  The gazebo caught Josiah’s attention, not only because it was ornate, hand-carved, and darn near fancier than any other gazebo he had ever seen . . . but also because there was a man standing under the domed roof, staring back at him.

  It was too far to make out any of the man’s facial features, and the light was too gray and murky to assume the man was interested in Josiah or Scrap. The stranger was prepared for the coming storm, too, protected by a long black duster, a wide-brimmed black hat, and a hood. He was smoking a cigar, and turned away when he saw he had captured Josiah’s gaze.

  Probably a curiosity seeker, Josiah thought, casting a look back at Scrap.

  Scrap was off his horse, tying up his mare next to Clipper.

  “Stay out here, and keep an eye on that fella,” Josiah said, tipping his head toward the gazebo.

  Scrap looked across the square. “Why do I have to be the one to get drenched?”

  “You want to deal with the undertaker? I thought you didn’t like being around anything that was dead or of the like?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well?”

  Scrap exhaled. “All right. He’s probably just watching . . . or a reporter from the newspaper.”

  “They have a newspaper here?”

  Scrap nodded. “The Zeitung. It’s all in German. Hickam’s boy warned me about the reporters. Says they’re relentless. The captain’s death will be a big headline.”

  “All the more reason for you to keep an eye on him. Stand under the eave here, and you won’t get so wet.”

  Scrap stepped up onto the boardwalk that edged the undertaker’s shop, and Josiah stopped before he went inside. “And don’t say a word to that man, if he comes this way. Just in case he is a reporter, you’ve had enough to say about the captain’s death.”

  “Do I look that stupid?”

  Josiah just shook his head and walked inside the shop. It smelled of fresh-cut wood. A thin coat of sawdust covered the floor. The mayor and the undertaker were having a discussion, and stopped talking as soon as Josiah was fully inside.

  The undertaker looked to be about Josiah’s age—a little young for an undertaker. He had carpenter’s hands, rough and callused. His face was free of a beard or mustache, and he was dressed like he was ready to leave for a funeral. He wore a knee-length black frock coat, a top hat, and boots that were shined to a high degree—the reflection of the lamp on the man’s desk glared in the boots like they were a mirror.

  “Ah, Ranger Wolfe, we are just waiting delivery of the buckboard. The undertaker here has the coffin readied, and the captain’s body loaded inside,” A. L. Kessler said.

  The undertaker offered his hand to shake, and Josiah obliged. The man didn’t offer an introduction of himself, and Josiah didn’t think knowing his name mattered in the least. In fact, the less he knew about the undertaker the better. The man’s hands were as cold as ice.

  A clap of thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the inside of the shop. Rain began to pelt the door, and from outside, Josiah heard Scrap’s voice rise in a greeting and muffled discussion. He assumed the buckboard had arrived.

  The door was pushed open, and they all turned to see who was coming inside.

  Josiah eased his hand inside the slicker and grasped the Peacemaker. As far as he knew, Kessler and the undertaker weren’t aware of the man standing in the gazebo. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  Scrap entered first, rain draining off his hat in streams. There was an odd look on his face, and to Josiah’s relief, he did not look distressed, but he did look a little confused.

  A man followed Scrap inside. It was the man in the gazebo. A man Josiah recognized immediately.

  Juan Carlos smiled, and said, “Hello, Señor Wolfe, it is good to see you again.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Josiah was glad to see Juan Carlos, though he worried about the man’s safety. The old Mexican must have read Josiah’s concern, because he immediately went to the mayor and shook his hand. “It is good to see you again, too, Señor Kessler.”

  “It has been t
oo many years, Juan Carlos,” the mayor said, his voice soft and mournful, clasping Juan Carlos’s hand firmly in both of his own hands.

  “Sí. I only wish our meeting was under kinder circumstances.”

  Kessler nodded and said to Josiah, “Juan has told me of the events in San Antonio. The posse who sought to take him to trial has given up, returned to the city. There is a reward out for his capture. I have wired Sheriff Patterson and Major Jones, making them aware that you have Juan Carlos in custody, and you are escorting him to Austin, where he will be turned over to the local authorities.” He paused and took a deep breath. “I have known Juan Carlos almost as long as I have known Hiram Fikes, and have vouched for his honor . . . A fair trial is never a guarantee, but I am assuming that you are willing to recount the events that took place at the Menger and brought the trouble into Juan Carlos’s life?”

  “Of course,” Josiah said. “He saved my life.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” Kessler answered. “I assume you know Juan Carlos and the captain have been friends since boyhood?”

  Josiah sighed, was relieved. He hadn’t known how long the captain and Juan Carlos had been friends—had known little of their relationship—but he was still concerned about the Mexican’s welfare. The old man was taking a big chance showing himself in public, considering that he was wanted.

  “I wouldn’t trust Patterson. I think he may have been involved in the shooting of the captain and the release of Charlie Langdon,” Josiah said.

  Juan Carlos shook his head no. “I do not think so, señor. Only one man broke off from the posse. The rest returned to San Antonio before the captain was killed. If the sheriff is involved, it is from a distance. The man acted on his own as far as I could tell. But I was only following them, skirting the side of their camp. I was not able to get close enough to listen to them.”

  “Who was the man that broke off on his own?” Josiah asked.

  “I do not know. He was with the captain at the Silver Dollar the night Burly Smith attacked you. But I do not know anything of him . . . other than the captain seemed to know him reasonably well. That means nothing of course. The captain knew a lot of hombres malvados, evil men . . . on both sides of the law.”