The Rattlesnake Season Page 5

  He had enough confidence in his shooting ability to give up one shot for the sake of his own well-being and the preservation of his weapon. Another hard lesson learned from the war: Protect your weapon at all times—there could be a time when it was the only friend you had, more trustworthy than any human being could ever hope to be.

  “Señor, are you here?”

  Josiah let out a sigh of relief. He recognized the voice immediately. It was the old Mexican’s, Juan Carlos.

  “Yes,” he whispered, as he relieved the gun of its ready position. “I’m in the corner of the last stall.”

  Juan stepped out of the shadows and appeared at the gate. Clipper huffed a snort through his nose, then kicked up a bit of straw.

  Josiah stood up and patted the Appaloosa on the shoulder. “Relax, old friend, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Ah, Señor Ranger. It is good to find you well.”

  “Josiah. Josiah Wolfe.” He extended his hand to the old man for a handshake. “I believe I am in your debt.”

  The Mexican looked at Josiah curiously, then grasped his hand firmly. A slight smile came to his leathery face. His wrinkles looked like crevices in the dim, gray light.

  “I was just doing my job.”

  It took Josiah a moment to understand what the man had said. “Job” sounded like “yob.” Deciphering Mexicans when they spoke English came relatively easy to Josiah, since he spent so much time around Ofelia, but his Anglo ears were just shy of fully awake, and a good, hot cup of coffee would go a long way to clear his head.

  A spider crawled up his forearm. Josiah flicked it off and ground it to a quick death with the heel of his boot. The eight-legged carriers of pain and disease didn’t deserve any more justice than they gave, as far as Josiah was concerned.

  “My name is Juan Carlos. It was the charge of my friend, Captain Fikes, to keep you safe. I have come to apologize for my failure, señor.”

  “But I’m fine.” Josiah held his voice just at a whisper since he did not want to draw any undue attention to the stall. He had made it through the night without an encounter with Charlie’s gang, and he wanted to keep it that way. “If you wouldn’t have sliced Burly Smith’s throat, he was going to kill me.”

  “Sí, but I was led away, tricked, I think,” Juan Carlos said, a forlorn look on his face. “They were carrying in the holy cross for the new Sancti Antonii, and I was distracted by a man, another Mexican I do not know, to witness the event.”

  Josiah shrugged; he did not understand.

  Juan nodded. “The church should be complete before the fall winds blow. The diocese will be here now. Along with all of the glory and the beauty of the Savior, change will come to the church itself.”

  Like in Austin, Josiah thought, but didn’t say aloud. There sure seemed to be a lot of change going on in the world.

  “They did not want a crowd,” Juan Carlos continued, “until the cardinals are present. They will be on the grounds this morning as they lift the cross to its perch, to its resting place for the ages. But I will not be here. I will be riding in the length of Captain Fikes’s shadow.”

  “You’re a scout for the captain?”

  “You could call me that. But that is not important, what I am for the captain. I only sought a moment for myself, and while I was away from my post you were . . .” Juan Carlos stopped and rolled his eyes upward as if he was searching for the right word. “Attacked,” he finally said. “I beg your forgiveness.”

  Josiah stared at the old man and knew he was being truthful, that Juan Carlos’s action had indeed caused him a lot of grief.

  He understood. On the battlefield, when he was truly green and afraid, he had made shortsighted and selfish decisions that had caused a great deal of harm and pain, the loss of limbs by fellow soldiers and even death. The outcome of Juan Carlos’s failure did not seem to be so severe in the end, but the man was weighted down by it.

  “Really,” Josiah said, “there is nothing to forgive. But I hold no ill will if that is what you seek.”

  “Sí, it is. Forgiveness is the journey of my soul. I have learned that the man, this Burly Jones, has died. I have committed a mortal sin, and now I must await my judgment. Mi destino está en las manos de Dios—My fate is in God’s hands,” Juan Carlos said, translating himself as if it were a habit.

  There was nothing else to say as far as Josiah was concerned. The matters of religion and faith left him feeling cold and empty. Some men found it easy to find God in the loneliness of the trail, in the wide-open spaces, in the fear of violence or on the battlefield. While for other men, like Josiah, God was lost there just as easily, after seeing the reality of life and death, the pain and suffering that came uninvited to the innocent.

  For Josiah, there was no explanation of war to be found in a new church. A child dying in his arms did not seem natural to him, either—or right. How could a god of any kind allow something like that to happen?

  It was not a question that Josiah was going to pose to Juan Carlos, even though he felt the old Mexican just might try and answer it. There seemed to be a different spirit about the old man, in the gray light of dawn, that gave Josiah just a little bit of comfort.

  A moment of silence passed between Josiah and Juan Carlos. They stood face-to-face, each waiting, it seemed, for the other to say something of importance.

  Outside the livery, the sun had broken over the horizon and the birds began to sing in earnest. A chorus of clucks, chirps, and pure song signaled that the day had started and darkness had been conquered once more.

  Juan Carlos reached up and put his hand on Josiah’s shoulder. “A long time ago, in another life, my failure caused the death of a good man, but it also brought me into the company of a man who is now my truest friend, Captain Hiram Fikes. It was a blessing and a curse at the time of my greatest sin. I have sought forgiveness since the day I fell from grace. Now I have committed another act against a fellow man.”

  Josiah looked at Juan Carlos curiously. “You saved my life.”

  “The sheriff will not see it that way.”

  “Captain Fikes will stand up for you.”

  “My salvation is not his fate. I shall not ask him to tarnish his horizons with the blood on my fingers.”

  “What will you do?”

  Juan Carlos looked to the rafters of the stall, then back to Josiah. “I feel as though I have happened onto the dark circumstance of my own violent nature once again. As long as I am alive, Señor Josiah Wolfe, I will be in your debt, and I hope that we become fast friends, but I must face what comes.”

  “I would like that . . . being your friend,” Josiah said, as he walked over and began collecting his bedroll. The captain would be waiting in front of the jail once the sun rose above the horizon.

  When he turned around to ask Juan Carlos if he would join him for a bit of breakfast, there was no sign of the old man. He was gone.

  CHAPTER 6

  Charlie Langdon stood on the steps of the jail, his feet shackled, his hands bound by metal bracelets, connected by a three-link chain. A keyhole sat at the base of the bracelets, and Charlie’s hands looked a little big for them to be comfortable. It was obvious he was not going to show one ounce of discomfort to the small crowd that had assembled to see him ridden out of town.

  Someone had given Charlie a fresh shave, but it did not appear as though he had been afforded a bath or a fresh set of clothes. His clothes were ratty and worn, the knees sliced open and stained like he’d run through a berry patch trying to escape something, or someone. Still, if he had been let out of custody and left to wander the streets of San Antonio, the man whom Josiah and the other Rangers were charged with returning to Tyler for trial would have fit in without any notice. Nothing about Charlie made him stand out.

  In age, Charlie Langdon was only a year or so older than Josiah, near on thirty-five years old, though he looked like he could have been ten years older. His hair was solid black with gray streaks at the roots and on the s
ideburns. A thin scar ran under Charlie’s right eye, a mark he’d gained in Chickamauga, in a blazing sword volley that left three men dead, and left Josiah stunned and intimidated by Charlie’s level of skill with the long blade.

  First in, last out, Charlie paid the price of being in the Brigade more than once, and Josiah was usually not too far behind him, running into battle in the shadow of one of the bravest, craziest, men he’d ever come to know. You had to respect any man with Charlie’s dedication and fearlessness—regardless of whose side they fought on.

  If the end of the war, Reconstruction, and running as an outlaw had taken a heavy toll on Charlie, it was in the physical form. He had always been a big, but spry, man—almost a head taller than most—but he seemed to have lost a little heft. He was far from bony, but he looked stiff, and his eyes were dull, lifeless, and a little sunken in.

  Josiah would have judged him as tired and beaten if he hadn’t known the man personally. But that might have been precisely what Charlie wanted everyone to think—that he was consumptive, ill, tired of being on the run, his life as an outlaw finally over.

  Charlie Langdon was not beyond spinning a spidery ruse like the one Captain Fikes himself had spun to quash the jailbreak. Josiah made a mental note to clue in the captain, in a subtle way of course, about Charlie’s talent for deception.

  He’d seen Charlie play dead and feign injury more times than he could count, then watched in awe and horror as he rose up, almost as if resurrected by some preordained miracle, to fight hand-to-hand with an unsuspecting Union soldier as the rest of the Brigade retreated to safety.

  Last out. Charlie Langdon was always the last man to lay down the sword, and along the way there was no right or wrong, no rules of fairness on the battlefield, just the swift delivery of his own brand of justice and, finally, the satisfied smile that always came to his face as the death of his victim—his sworn enemy the Union soldier or whoever it was at the moment—occurred at his hand.

  Josiah was convinced that Charlie Langdon was born with a deep and abiding hate in the pit of his stomach and had never known a moment of love or tenderness.

  The jail sat at an intersection on the northernmost corner of the street. Josiah was comfortably mounted atop Clipper, watching for a signal from Captain Fikes to proceed forward, to physically accept custody of Charlie Langdon from Sheriff Patterson. His view encompassed both events that had put a stranglehold on the streets of San Antonio—Charlie Langdon being escorted out of town and the cross being erected on the new diocese.

  Josiah was focused as closely as possible on Charlie Langdon.

  The captain and the sheriff were huddled in a conversation, standing behind Charlie—who looked bored, expressionless. A deputy stood slightly off to Charlie’s right, brandishing a new Winchester. The rifle gleamed in the morning sunlight.

  Down the street, a larger crowd had gathered in front of the church that was being constructed. It was no mistake, Josiah decided, that Charlie was being moved on such an eventful morning. The street beyond the jail would be clear, the focus of the populace on the cardinals who had come to bless the cross. There, the crowd could watch the heavy hand-carved stone cross hoisted high above the street, high above the parishioners and nonbelievers alike, and set on its perch for eternity. It would be a spectacle not to be missed.

  Josiah was glad to be leaving San Antonio. But the competing crowds at the church and the jail made him nervous. He was not sure who was who—since Rangers didn’t wear a badge or anything more to distinguish themselves than Charlie Langdon’s gang did. He tried to watch everything—the rooftops, the horses, wagons, and stagecoaches coming and going—but there was too much to take in.

  He was certain shots were going to ring out at any moment, that a rush of men would appear, their mission to rescue Charlie, their lack of concern about spilling blood clear in their approach—guns blazing, explosions going off that would make the one the night before pale in comparison, and the street littered with the bodies and blood of innocent onlookers whose only crime was curiosity and thrill-seeking.

  Josiah knew his imagination was running free, but he had considered, thoroughly, what Burly Smith’s intent was. If it wasn’t for Juan Carlos, he’d be a dead man for sure.

  Josiah shuddered at the thought.

  Finally, the signal was given from the sheriff, and the handoff to the captain went smoothly.

  Josiah sighed, holding a deep breath in his chest, so no one could see his physical reaction to the new responsibility. Taking custody of Charlie Langdon was akin to stepping in a rattlesnake hole. Sooner or later you were going to get bit.

  Two of the three men who had been sitting with Captain Fikes at the gambling table in the Silver Dollar had returned from their scouting trip to Neu-Braunfels. They were sitting patiently in the lead of Charlie Langdon’s horse.

  As Josiah had assumed, the two men, Sam Willis and Viola “Vi” McClure, were new to the Rangers. They had been cattle hands and were now anxious to use their navigation skills at fighting the Comanche.

  Neither seemed too happy about heading to Tyler, north instead of west—away from the conflicts with the Comanche, instead of headlong into battle. Ridding the land of rustlers and thieves was one thing; redskins, so Willis and McClure said, were another. Each man held a grudge against the Indians as deep as a water well.

  Willis sat on a coal black stallion, a white star shining prominently on its narrow nose and a hand-tooled Mexican saddle, decorated with silver buckles and studs, secured to its strong back. McClure’s horse strained under the weight of the large man, and he kind of looked like a big child riding a small blond pony.

  Josiah saw no need to rush into battle with anyone, but he silently acknowledged both men’s lack of fighting experience. They would come to understand that fighting to the death was something not to be taken lightly—or they would die in the process.

  Scrap Elliot and Pete Feders sat at opposite sides of the horse Charlie was to ride, waiting patiently for the captain to mount his own horse and give the command to depart San Antonio once and for all. It wasn’t Josiah’s place to question the captain’s tactics, but he hoped there were more Rangers than just the six of them to escort Charlie Langdon out of town.

  Josiah held the captain’s horse, a tall chestnut mare named Fat Susie—who was anything but fat—at the rear. The origin of the horse’s name was not much of a mystery to anyone who knew Captain Fikes, and much to the chagrin of the captain’s wife. Fat Susie was supposedly a woman in Austin whose nighttime reputation was too delicate for discussion in polite company. The captain had taken a shine to her before he became an honest man and married the current Mrs. Fikes. Josiah was not sure, nor did he care, if the scuttlebutt were true. Fat Susie was a dependable horse, and that’s all that mattered to him. He did imagine, though, that a horse as handsome as the chestnut mare was did mind the name.

  Behind Josiah and Clipper were a couple of packhorses, loaded down with supplies. The ponies were Josiah’s charge. Captain Fikes had told him that he wanted a good deal of distance kept between Josiah and Charlie Langdon once they were on the trail, even in camp.

  A fly buzzed Josiah’s nose as he watched the captain, and waited.

  The captain was nodding, talking under his breath angrily, finishing up an obviously frustrating conversation with Sheriff Patterson.

  Josiah swatted the fly, and scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Juan Carlos. Not surprisingly, the old Mexican was nowhere to be seen.

  Josiah knew the captain and the sheriff were talking about the old man’s fate for the killing of Burly Smith. It didn’t sound like the captain was getting his way, and that didn’t surprise Josiah in the least.

  Juan Carlos had known he needed to sneak out of town, but from the sound of things, a posse was being formed to hunt down the Mexican, so he could be brought back for a trial. It didn’t seem to matter to the sheriff that Burly Smith had been hired to kill Josiah, a Ranger at that, and had nearly succeeded. A
ll that seemed to matter to the sheriff was that Juan Carlos was one more Mexican with Texan blood on his hands.

  Josiah heard the words “fair trial” come from the sheriff’s mouth. “And that’s the final word, unless you want to take it up with the circuit court judge in the morning.”

  The captain spit on the ground, just missing Sheriff Patterson’s mud-caked boot, and threw up his arms. “Let’s move out of here before I shoot somebody and get myself thrown into that poor excuse for a jailhouse.”

  Sheriff J. T. Patterson shook his head, smirked, and watched his deputy lead Charlie Langdon to the waiting horse. The deputy unshackled Charlie’s feet, then another deputy came and helped Charlie mount the horse.

  Fikes watched, his arms folded. Josiah knew it was a stubborn move, not taking responsibility for Charlie until he had to, not ordering one of his Rangers to help Charlie mount the sad-looking mare the sheriff had provided. There’d be plenty of helping Charlie Langdon up and down off the horse on the trail—if the horse made it to Tyler alive. It was the most haggard, swaybacked creature Josiah had ever seen.

  Charlie settled in on the saddle as best he could, and cast a sidelong glance back to Josiah. “Surprised to see you here, Wolfe.”

  “Bet you are.”

  “Heard Burly met his maker at the hand of a Mexican. Why doesn’t it surprise me one bit that you’d have a Mexican watching your back?”

  Josiah glared at Charlie. His stomach was rustling about like there was a swarm of bees let loose inside him. He wasn’t scared—maybe nervous, maybe anticipating whatever it was that was coming next, because it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  It was, he knew instinctively, going to be a long ride north, and he couldn’t let Charlie see one buzzing bee of discomfort in his stomach or he’d be a dead man . . . sooner rather than later.

  “Shut up,” Captain Fikes said, as he mounted Fat Susie in one swift blur of movement. The captain’s spryness never ceased to amaze Josiah, as did his directness.