The Rattlesnake Season (10 page)
Read The Rattlesnake Season Online
Authors: Larry D. Sweazy
Some people hated the Irish about as much as they hated Mexicans, Josiah thought to himself. But he didn’t say anything. It would take more than a glare to provoke him.
The other two riders remained quiet, their shaded eyes darting at every movement.
Josiah turned away from O’Reilly and kept his own eyes on the other riders, specifically their gun hands.
He would have preferred to have a new model Winchester in his possession, instead of the carbine, since he could fire off the rounds quicker, but the carbine would have to do . . . for now.
The two riders did not look like typical lawmen any more than O’Reilly, the tracker, did.
“I am harboring a criminal, yes,” the captain said.
“Figured as much.”
“You should have—you watched me ride out of town with him.”
“Not Langdon, you damned old fool.”
“He’s the only criminal I’ve seen all day. Though I’m starting to wonder what side of the law you truly stand on.”
“The side that sees the necessity for one man to stand trial for killing another.”
Josiah started to bite his tongue. He wanted to have his say about Juan Carlos, but he wasn’t sure what the captain’s reaction would be if he jumped into the fray, so he continued to restrain himself. Though he didn’t know how much longer he could keep quiet.
“There won’t be a fair trial for that Mexican, and you know it,” Captain Fikes said. “No Mexican’s ever got a trial that wasn’t tainted in some way or the other.”
Sheriff Patterson did not offer any sign that would suggest he disagreed with the captain. Nor did he indicate that he cared in the least about the welfare of a Mexican. He just stared past Josiah to the other Rangers and Charlie Langdon.
“You wouldn’t mind if we look over yonder for a sign of the Mexican. I sure don’t mean to imply that a revered captain in the Rangers would lie. You still call yourself that don’t you, Fikes? A Ranger? Last I heard you were conducting raids on innocents with the State Police.”
“There is no such organization called the State Police these days.”
“A change of name doesn’t stop a man’s memory of the misdeeds carried out in the past.”
“I suppose what matters is the man determining what the misdeeds are. What side of the law he stands on.”
“Governor Davis seemed none too impressed with some of the misdeeds committed by his past emissaries.”
“Did you ride all the way out here to bicker about the politics in Austin, Patterson? Maybe you should protest where it matters. It’s a three-day ride last time I made the trip.”
“I believe I have better things to do with my time these days. Nothing will be the same under Coke. Davis should have never gave in, and surrendered the office. Now, are you going to allow us to take a look around?”
Josiah determined that the captain and the sheriff stood on opposite political sides. Most any two men in Texas did these days, but that didn’t fully explain the contention that weighed heavily between these two.
Patterson had implied that the captain had carried out a misdeed . . . in the name of the State Police. Which seemed odd. The captain had always been a Ranger, and never worked in the capacity of the State Police as far as Josiah knew. But the last couple of years had been difficult for Josiah, left him out of touch. Maybe the captain had ridden with the State Police in some capacity, but it would have only been because the Rangers were poorly funded under Governor Davis.
Any notion of a misdeed having occurred would depend on whose moral code that deed, or misdeed, was siphoned through, who was doing the judging. Josiah didn’t trust a man like J. T. Patterson. The sheriff seemed bitter, angry about having to let go of the ways of the past. Being an expert in that quality himself allowed Josiah to recognize with certainty the man’s character. The man craved power, and for some reason he had chosen to challenge the captain to prove his own worth.
Whatever the cause of the dislike that existed between the two men, all Josiah could hope for at the moment was that his new Mexican friend was safe—and smarter than an Irish tracker. He scanned the horizon as quickly as he could, hoping to see a sign of Juan Carlos’s presence, a shadow that assured him the man was at a safe distance, watching . . . but he saw nothing.
Captain Fikes stroked his chin. “You don’t need my permission to ride past my men, Sheriff. Not if you’re to be on your way.”
“Well, that I am. I’ve wasted enough time tussling with you for one day—a year for that matter, but our business is unfinished for now. Your man could be miles away.”
“For his sake, I hope so.”
“Just as I thought,” Patterson said.
Fikes nodded. “Just as you thought—you’re right this time, Patterson. But I have no criminal in my custody other than Charlie Langdon. And the sooner I am free of that low-life pearl, the better off my life will be.”
Sheriff Patterson swung his horse around with a nod and a glare, ordered his men to follow him, then headed slowly up the trail toward the waiting Rangers.
Fikes and Josiah held back, waiting a good minute or two before trotting slowly after the posse. “Shoot first and ask questions later if it comes to that,” the captain said, barely in a whisper.
Josiah nodded.
Patterson and O’Reilly split and each paired up with one of the other two men, then they all circled Charlie Langdon like a kettle of buzzards, black-winged birds swirling in the air like a mountain-sized stew pot.
Pete Feders sat erect on his horse, unwavering and quiet, not looking to Captain Fikes for any orders. He already knew what to do. There was no question about that.
The wind had kicked up a bit, and a few dirt devils swirled to life in the broad dry patches beyond the towering oaks, between the hills and the cemetery. Other than the sound of the wind and the steady gait of horse hooves hitting the ground, the air was quiet. Not one bird bothered to sing or shriek in warning. It was easy to guess that they were all watching, though, with a heightened fear of humans.
Charlie Langdon snickered, then started calling the sheriff every name he could probably think of . . . trying to light a fire, trying to create an opportunity for escape.
Josiah had seen him do it before.
Once in Suffolk, three Union soldiers had made the mistake of capturing Charlie and not taking their captive as seriously as they should have. Before it was all said and done, each man was dead, or lay dying, from wounds inflicted by his own weapon.
There were other times, but that was just the first one to come to Josiah’s mind. And the lesson was clear: Never leave a knife open to a man like Charlie Langdon, or it would be the last regret a man had before he died a slow, painful death.
Luckily for all of their sakes, no one was riled by Charlie’s onslaught of insults. O’Reilly’s face reddened when he was called a Mick, but beyond that, the trick did not take.
The posse gathered up, and the sheriff commanded them to go forward, north on the trail, away from San Antonio.
They took off like they had set a house on fire and were afraid of getting caught.
Captain Fikes didn’t say a word until the sheriff and his riders were out of sight. “I sure don’t understand how a damn fool like J. T. Patterson got himself elected as sheriff of San Antonio—and come to think it, I probably don’t want to know.” He spit a load of tobacco juice to the ground and shook his head in disgust. “We haven’t seen the last of that bunch.”
For once, Josiah hoped the captain was wrong. But he doubted that he was.
CHAPTER 9
The air dramatically cooled as night fell. Two jackrabbits roasted over a healthy fire. The cooking meat was a welcome smell to Josiah, overtaking the stink of trail sweat; his own, as well as the other Rangers’.
Charlie Langdon seemed to revel in his own filth. Anyone within three feet of the criminal could tell he had not been afforded a bath since his capture . . . and he didn’t seem to mind. Josiah knew the last thing on Charlie Langdon’s mind would be the cleanliness of his own person. What mattered to Charlie Langdon more than anything else would be surviving first, and being free second. He was as patient as a heron stalking a minnow—he would wait to strike at the most appropriate moment, when there was no doubt his attack would result in the highest amount of intended success. Given the opportunity to escape, he would surely be ready.
Josiah was surprised Charlie hadn’t tried anything before now, beyond kicking Scrap Elliot when he got down off his horse. That was just a message for the greenhorn to keep his distance—but it was a message to everyone else as well: Give Charlie Langdon as much space as possible. Josiah hoped everyone in the escort party had paid attention.
All things considered, it had been a harder ride from San Antonio than he’d thought it would be. In a way he was glad to be riding with a group of men for once, but rarely was there a moment when it was possible for Josiah to let down his guard. Now he was tired, and glad for a moment’s rest once the camp had been set. But he continued to keep a close eye on Charlie, who sat, wrists still bound by the metal bracelets, across the fire from Josiah.
Willis and McClure had bound the prisoner’s feet together with a strong piece of rope once they’d hoisted him off the horse and led him to his resting place for the night—every gun in the camp trained on Charlie’s egg-shaped head. One false move and he’d be full of holes, and nobody knew that better than Charlie himself. He didn’t speak a word, hadn’t since he’d been placed in front of the fire glaring at Josiah.
Scrap Elliot had first watch, and Josiah was thankful for the quietness in the camp.
Elliot never seemed to shut up. It was like silence scared him. Josiah figured Scrap was sitting on a boulder just at the crest of the hill they had settled on, muttering all kinds of nonsense to himself. Didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t have to hear it . . . but the kid sure was starting to grate on his nerves.
The horses had been corralled, watered, and fed, and were resting comfortably under a spindly oak. They had left the stream several hours ago. The landscape was almost barren, quiet and lifeless now.
Captain Fikes, Pete Feders, and Sam Willis were huddled together just off to Josiah’s left. They sat in a semicircle about ten feet from the fire, among their bedrolls, backs to everyone else, participating in a hushed conversation. Josiah didn’t know Willis very well and didn’t think too much of the threesome holding a private talk. But other concerns were on his mind.
He hoped he would have time in between delivering Charlie and leaving for the Red River camp to spend a little time with his son, Lyle. It was something he would have to talk to the captain about. But now was not the time. Josiah had enough sense about him not to interrupt the meeting.
Instead, his gaze shifted to Vi McClure, who was steadily tending to the rabbits.
McClure was a big man with black shoulder-length hair that curled up over his collar. Josiah guessed the Scot to be a few years younger than himself, probably a little too young to have any wartime experience—it was hard to tell.
McClure’s eyes were dark and a bit brooding, and he wore a serious look on his face most of the time. There was a slight hint of a Scottish brogue when he spoke, but it was distant, like he had been born in the States but lived among people who spoke in the tongue and language of his home country from the time he was a child.
Josiah had never heard pure Scottish spoken before. There were plenty of German immigrants in Texas; Chinese, too, and plenty of Mexicans—so he had heard a lot of different languages over the years, just not Scottish—or Irish, now that he thought about it. He wondered what it sounded like. The idea of languages had always fascinated him, but not enough to learn any more than he had to understand and communicate with Ofelia in some basic sort of way, and with some of the help he had around the farm.
McClure and Willis appeared to have an easy relationship, a bond that seemed to be as strong as the captain and Pete Feders’s. Josiah thought the two men were probably friends off the trail, and there wasn’t an apparent rank between the two of them. Neither seemed in charge of the other.
Other books
Skinny Legs and All by Robbins, Tom
Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog by Eileen Beha
Bought for Revenge by Sarah Mallory
Body Politic by Paul Johnston
The Best American Poetry 2015 by David Lehman
Blue Warrior by Mike Maden
Death in Rome by Wolfgang Koeppen
The Beneath by S. C. Ransom
A Wayward Game by Pandora Witzmann