The Rattlesnake Season Page 9

  The closest cloth was a shirt next to the bedroll Charlie Langdon had been using. Josiah jumped up to grab the shirt, but stopped when he saw the metal bracelets that had bound Charlie’s wrists, lying on the ground, popped open like they had never been locked in the first place.

  Josiah left Scrap to tend to himself and pressure the wound.

  Captain Fikes was sprawled out on the ground about ten feet from where the horses were corralled. Someone, probably Feders, had covered Fikes with a blanket. His eyes were closed, but his chest rose and fell rapidly, like he was battling for each and every precious breath.

  The wheeze coming out of the captain’s mouth was unmistakable . . . Death was approaching, growing closer with each attempt, even though the captain’s body was putting up a fight against the inevitable coming of darkness.

  It was a hard thing for Josiah to see. Hiram Fikes was a man cast of iron, a warrior with more lives than any cat, and his death in the middle of nowhere, at the hands of unseen attackers, seemed so unlikely and surreal that Josiah could hardly believe what he was witnessing.

  The sun had peaked over the horizon.

  The gray dawn was just another bad memory, the quiet night before suspect, and accordingly, every action and word would be pored over, tossed and turned, in search of apparent failures, answers about what had occurred from shortly before the shooting began in the camp.

  But as far as Josiah was concerned, now was not the time to go looking for blame.

  A small cloud of rolling dust in the distance caught his attention.

  Riders heading back toward San Antonio.

  The dust was too thick, too small, too far in the distance, to make out any detail, how many horses, who they were—impossible to tell. But one thing was certain: Charlie Langdon was nowhere to be seen. He had escaped.

  The small cloud quickly joined up with a larger cloud—a group that had been waiting, which struck Josiah as strange.

  Pete Feders stared up at Josiah. He was crouched at the captain’s side, dabbing the wounded man’s dry lips with a wet handkerchief. In Feders’s eyes there was anger that bordered on rage. “No one heard your warning, Wolfe.”

  “That’s because there wasn’t one. They came in around the cliff face, in the shadows. There’s no way I could have seen them. We needed two posts.”

  “So you’re saying it’s the captain’s own fault he’s laying here dying?”

  “I am not assigning blame, only answering your question. If the captain dies, we’ll all bear the burden of being present at his last breath,” Josiah said, averting his attention from Feders back to the captain.

  Fikes looked like he was shrinking, the life vanishing from him before Josiah’s very eyes. Lily had withered away just like that—all too fast. One minute she was there, and the next gone.

  “I’m going after them.”

  Feders shook his head. “Willis is on their trail.”

  “What about McClure?”

  “He was the one that let Charlie loose.”

  Josiah lowered his head and took a deep breath. “What the hell?” he whispered. “Are you sure? McClure seemed like a gentle man, one of us.”

  “Elliot saw it with his own two eyes, probably saved us all from having our throats slit while we slept. Kid’s lucky to be alive.”

  “The wound is little more than a knick, but he is a lucky one. I’m glad for that,” Josiah said, casting a glance down the trail at the camp. He could see Scrap, still propped against the rock, his eyes frozen into an angry, confused stare at McClure’s empty stack of dishes next to the fire.

  “Him and Charlie must’ve had it all figured out.” Feders paused, chewed the corner of his lip in thought for a second before continuing. “Waited until his gang was on us. They came from the inside out. Guess that’s why you didn’t see anything moving around until it was too late.”

  “How many of them where there?” Josiah’s question was flat. He was angry that he had been duped by Vi McClure. But it wasn’t only him. All of them had believed in the man.

  “Hard to say. At least three.”

  Josiah kicked the dirt with his boot, looked out over the valley, and saw Sam Willis riding full-out toward San Antonio. He was certain that Willis was no match for Charlie Langdon and his gang, but at least he’d keep on their trail. “Four. I shot one on my side of the camp.”

  Feders wet the captain’s lips again. “I owe you an apology then.”

  “No need for that now. We need to back up Willis.”

  Feders nodded, and stared out at the lone rider in the valley. “Sam Willis has got a score to settle. We’ll catch up with him soon enough.”

  “He trusted McClure,” Josiah said. “The Scot told me they’d known each other for a long time. Whatever made him turn on his friend must have been pretty powerful.”

  “Turned on us, too. Called himself a Ranger. Rangers don’t kill Rangers.”

  “How do we know Willis is telling the truth? That he’s not one of them, too?”

  “He wounded McClure. Shot him in the back of the leg as he and Charlie jumped on their horses to flee.” Feders paused, gritted his teeth. “Like low-down cowards. Low-down damn cowards.”

  Before Josiah could say anything else, Captain Fikes opened his eyes suddenly, but wasn’t able to focus them on anything in particular. His fingers curled under and he gasped again, this time more deeply than ever. His chest rose high up off the ground—his back was a perfect arch, holding for a long, long moment. The wheeze was loud and hard, like a heavy scratch at the door. And then there was silence, as the captain’s body heaved even harder and fell still on the ground.

  Pete Feders waited a minute, leaned in to detect breathing, then closed the captain’s eyes when he was certain of death. “I’m going after them, Captain. You can count on that. Charlie Langdon and Vi McClure aren’t going to get away with this. If I have to track them to my own last day, I will. I promise you that,” he said, through clenched teeth.

  “So do I,” Josiah added. “So do I.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Pete Feders climbed up on his horse. “I think this is the best thing to do.”

  Josiah was more than upset at the orders he knew were coming, but Captain Fikes had made it clear to him that Feders was higher in rank, so there was nothing he could do but quit the Rangers right then and there if he was going to object strongly. That wasn’t going to happen. He would be a good soldier . . . even though he was nothing of the kind anymore . . . but he would serve the captain, regardless of what he thought ought to happen next.

  “I’m hoping to catch up with Willis,” Feders continued. “Then I’ll put the word out to the other companies of Rangers that Charlie Langdon is on the loose and the captain’s been killed. You and Elliot need to get the captain home for a proper burial.”

  “But that’s a three-day ride,” Scrap protested. “He’ll be drawing all sorts of critters with his stink.”

  “Captain Hiram Fikes is a son of Texas, a hero to our beloved state and country, and he will not be laid to rest in some hole by the edge of the trail where he was shot down while upholding the law. He has a family who deserves to pay their respects. And, besides, he’s a Ranger, and that’s not how we do things, Elliot. Do I make myself clear?”

  Scrap Elliot looked like he had just been scolded by his father—even though Feders wasn’t old enough for such a thing to be considered, his being Scrap’s father, that is. But the captain’s death had squared the sergeant’s shoulders. There was no doubt Feders was in charge now.

  Josiah watched Scrap cast his forlorn eyes to the ground, bite his lip, and then kick his right boot back and forth, stirring up a cloud of dust at his feet. He was certain the kid was going to say something that would provoke Feders even further.

  Josiah didn’t think that would be a good idea at the moment.

  “I’d just hoped to bring those outlaws to swift justice,” Scrap said.

  Josiah stayed out of the argument even though he
pretty much agreed with Scrap.

  “I would think you would find it an honor to ensure the captain’s return home, Private Elliot,” Feders said, adjusting the reins to his horse in his hands and stiffening his back for a long ride.

  “I do. I most certainly do. It’s just that . . .”

  “Don’t be so anxious to get into a fight. Your alertness served us well, and I will make sure that Major Jones knows of your attentiveness and enthusiasm. But I will take up this fight, and round up the necessary men I need to see it through to the end. You two have an equally important task.”

  “Yes, sir,” Scrap said.

  “Wolfe?”

  “Understood,” Josiah answered. “We’ll head to Austin.”

  “Once you get to Neu-Braunfels, go straight to the mayor’s office. Kessler is an acquaintance of the captain’s. He’ll spare you some fresh horses and a night’s rest on a soft mattress. The news of the captain’s death will have reached the capital by the time you arrive there, but when you deliver the body to the family be as gentle as possible about it. The captain’s wife has a history of hysterics.”

  Josiah nodded. “I can do that.”

  “And then await further orders from me before doing anything else. You will be at the beck and command of the captain’s family until we meet up again. Anything they ask. Do you have any questions about what I expect? Am I clear?”

  Josiah nodded his head yes. He restrained himself from calling Feders sir—even though Feders had picked up Captain Fikes’s habit of asking if he had made himself clear.

  Feders had, no question, viewed the captain as a role model, but at the moment, the man was a sergeant, not an officer. He worked for a living just like Josiah did. Scrap didn’t know how things like that worked. Feders hadn’t earned the right to be called sir, and Josiah wasn’t sure if such a title fit within the Texas Rangers in the first place. It wasn’t a military organization. At least not yet!

  “I’m serious, Wolfe. Elliot, do not even think about taking up the cause of bringing in Charlie Langdon or Vi McClure until we have had full communications. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Josiah said.

  “Yes, sir,” Scrap said.

  “Good. I know I can count on you both to see the captain delivered to his final resting place.” Pete Feders swung his horse around, flipped the reins, then tore out in the direction of San Antonio without saying another word.

  All Josiah and Scrap could do was stand there and watch Feders’s dust disappear over the horizon.

  They rolled out three blankets to bundle Captain Fikes’s body in. Josiah grabbed the captain by the shoulders and Scrap picked up his feet. It surprised Josiah how light Hiram Fikes really was. Even though it was obvious the captain was a small man, Josiah had really never seen him that way. Odd how a man’s personality will make him seem bigger when he’s breathing.

  In death, the captain was light as a feather.

  They laid him gently on the blanket, and Josiah reached inside captain’s breast pocket. At first, Josiah thought he was mistaken, until he dug a little deeper. He pulled out the key to the metal bracelets that had bound Charlie Langdon’s hands together. He remembered the captain taking the key from Sheriff J. T. Patterson right before they departed San Antonio.

  He raised the key out in front of him and inspected it. “You’re sure you saw Vi McClure shoot the captain, and then take the key out of his pocket?”

  “I think so,” Scrap said.

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, it all happened so fast.”

  “But you told Feders that’s what you saw. McClure shot the captain, grabbed the key, then freed Charlie. Willis shot McClure in the back of the leg. How could that be if I’m holding the key?”

  “Maybe there was two keys.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. I think that’s what you wanted to see.”

  “I swear it, Wolfe. Vi McClure shot the captain.”

  “Maybe he was shooting at somebody behind the captain. It was still dark, right?”

  Scrap took off his hat and scratched his head. “I ’spect it was still night, but nearing daybreak. Kind of murky at the moment, standing here over the captain’s dead body. I don’t like dead bodies. They make me nervous.”

  “And you’re a Ranger?”

  “Well, I suppose a dead Indian wouldn’t bother me. I just can’t help but thinking about all the bugs and such that’ll chew on the captain before we get him home and they put him in the ground. It doesn’t seem right, the captain being dead. It’s a nightmare.”

  Josiah exhaled deeply. “Try and remember what you saw. If you’re wrong about what you saw, then McClure might not be a traitor. He might be in trouble. He’ll need our help. Feders and Willis might kill him before he has a chance to clear himself.”

  “I know what I saw, Wolfe. I just know it’s true.”

  “McClure killed the captain?”

  Scrap nodded.

  “All right. But think it through.”

  “I will.”

  Josiah looked at the key closely again, then put it in his pocket. He wasn’t convinced that Vi McClure had let Charlie Langdon loose. Especially now. But that didn’t change things. Captain Hiram Fikes, war hero and Texas Ranger, was dead, and Charlie Langdon, legendary soldier and killer, was on the run again. Josiah exhaled deeply at the disturbing thought. “Come on, let’s finish this.”

  They rolled the captain’s body in the blanket, tied it up as tight as possible, picked him up, and laid him headfirst across Fat Susie’s saddle.

  Fat Susie didn’t take too kindly to having a dead body placed on her back—she instantly reared up and whinnied madly, but Scrap grabbed her loose reins and got her under control before she bucked off the captain’s body.

  Josiah was glad to see the kid had some horse sense about him, but he didn’t say so.

  Scrap grew quiet and distant as they finished readying up the trail horses and loading camp, and Josiah pretty much wanted to keep it that way. Not that he wanted to wallow in the somberness, just the opposite. He shared Scrap’s desire to bring in Langdon—but the matter of McClure’s guilt was weighing heavily on his mind.

  The key really changed things.

  If McClure didn’t take the key from the captain’s pocket, then somebody else had another key.

  That somebody else was most likely the sheriff from San Antonio—or one of his deputies.

  Patterson came immediately to mind because of the visit he’d paid to them yesterday . . . and the conflict in San Antonio. There had seemed to be some underlying amount of angst between the captain and the sheriff. Something about the State Police that Josiah knew nothing about.

  The captain’s recent history, over the last couple of years, was mostly a mystery to Josiah. Just as his own doings and losses were a mystery to the captain.

  There was no way to know what had happened in the time Josiah was by Lily’s side, while she was pregnant with Lyle, and the captain was out in the world, doing what the captain did best as far as Josiah was concerned—being a Ranger, a man of the law at the very least. He was going to have to keep his ear out on the subject of the captain’s past once he arrived in Austin—that was a certainty.

  Josiah knew, as he finished packing up camp, that something just wasn’t right. There was more to what was going on than met the eye.

  McClure had struck Josiah as an honest, earnest fellow. Maybe it was an act, a put-on. But Sam Willis didn’t quite seem like the kind of man who could be easily tricked. It just didn’t add up . . . that the two would ride together for months—or years, he wasn’t sure—with McClure being a traitor the whole time. But he’d only heard McClure tell the story of their friendship.

  Willis had not talked much about his past . . . if at all. In fact, Josiah couldn’t remember any conversation that Willis had participated in since all of the Rangers joined up.

  And, he couldn’t quite bring himself to think that Scrap Elliot might have made up his stor
y about McClure shooting the captain, but he was second-guessing the kid, and beginning to wonder if he could really trust him.

  Time would tell.

  He’d have to keep a closer eye on Scrap than he’d originally intended to. It was almost like he had landed square in the middle of a flock of mockingbirds, and he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.

  It was nearing noon by the time they departed the camp.

  The sun was high in a cloudless sky. Most creatures had already taken refuge from the heat, though a few vultures had appeared out of nowhere and started to circle overhead.

  Josiah was tempted to shoot the birds out of the sky, but he decided not to.

  Their presence was a signal, a sign, that he would have to remain alert all the way to Austin, protecting the captain from carrion lovers, flesh eaters—as well as keeping himself and Scrap Elliot safe from Indian parties or any other bad elements along the way.

  He wondered about Juan Carlos, too. Wondered where the old Mexican was at, if he was safe. The thing Josiah most hoped was that the captain’s friend had not been captured by Sheriff Patterson. That would be a tragedy. Rarely did he wager against a lawman, but Patterson confused him . . . and Josiah suspected that the sheriff was somehow involved in the murder of Captain Fikes.

  He also did not let it leave his mind that Charlie Langdon now walked in the world again as a free man.

  There was no telling what that man was capable of doing—and Josiah knew better than to rely on Willis and Feders to give him any peace of mind. He would have to be vigilant about every movement, every sound, on the trail.

  He eased Clipper along, eyeing the trail as closely as possible.

  The nearer they got to Neu-Braunfels the more the land opened up to broad fields carpeted with more bluebonnets than Josiah had ever seen in his life.

  From a distance, the fields looked like large bodies of water, the wind rippling over the top, blossoms rolling like waves on a shallow ocean.