The Rattlesnake Season (15 page)

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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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“Do you know where he lives?”
“How would I know that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would imagine the sheriff will be in his office. Or at least one of his deputies will be. They’ll know where the mayor lives.”
“I hope they ain’t like the lawmen in San Antonio.”
Josiah didn’t respond, realizing that he didn’t know anything about Scrap Elliot’s life before they’d met in San Antonio. He had taken it on good faith, on the captain’s judgment, that Scrap had what it took to become a Ranger.
It was not the first time in his life that he had left home and joined a group of strangers and put his life in their hands, but for some reason this time felt different to Josiah.
Not only was Josiah’s youthful enthusiasm for adventure lacking, but his emotions, his heart, were being pulled in too many different directions. Upholding his duties felt as difficult as crossing the Guadalupe River.
“I’m sure this town is different.”
“Hope so.”
Josiah hesitated. “How long had you been in San Antonio?”
“Got there a few days before the captain went out after Charlie. I heard he was looking for Rangers, and I signed up right away.”
“Where you from, then?”
“Cooke County. A little ranch in the middle of nowhere.”
“But nowhere near a hanging tree?”
“No, sir. Nowhere near that tree. My pa saw that day come and pass. Says it was one of the ugliest days in his life. It was a long time ago—more than ten years since a hanging has been held at the tree.”
“I know,” Josiah said flatly.
The Great Hanging of 1862 had occurred just outside of Gainesville. Forty Unionists were hanged, considered traitors . . . even though there was little to no proof the men had conspired against the Confederacy.
Some folks thought the hangings were a crime, mostly abolitionists. Josiah was fighting in the Deep South at the time, but news of the mass hanging got back to the Brigade. Charlie Langdon celebrated the hangings with a rash of whiskey drinking and a whole lot of whooping and hollering. Then again, Charlie was always looking for a reason to celebrate, rile the troops, and death was usually his way.
As far as Josiah was concerned, there was nothing to celebrate . . . especially when he returned home and found out it was suspected that most of the men hanged in Cooke County were innocent.
The judgment had been a matter of single-minded violence, a taste for blood because of the times, the hate in the air, nothing else but urges pushed by war. The thought of the hangings, and the cause, saddened Josiah. He didn’t ask any more questions, and Scrap became unsettlingly quiet again.
It was nearly two hours later when Josiah stopped Clipper a few feet from the bank of the river. Josiah stared across it at the town rising up on the other side. Clean, pristine, whitewashed clapboard buildings seemed to glow in the late dusk.
It was not quite dark, the stars overhead dim, too far away to twinkle and burn silver-hot holes in the solid black fabric of night.
Neu-Braunfels was quiet and peaceful, candles and lamps flickering in a few windows, no saloon noise competing with the insects, birds, and other critters welcoming the coolness of night.
“I sure do hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I ’spect that’s the way it’s got to be,” Josiah said out loud, but not necessarily to Scrap. Then he eased Clipper into the river, toward the waiting town.
CHAPTER 13
A. L. Kessler did not look too happy to have a stranger knock on his door at so late an hour. The man’s face was narrow, wrinkled with deep crevices, covered in day-old gray stubble, and his eyes were weary, bloodshot. Kessler wore a mustache as well, and it was in need of a trim. He had thrown his pants on, and his day shirt was only half-buttoned. Disruption looked to be an irritant that occurred on a regular basis—the mayor eyed Josiah angrily; he was almost seething as he gripped the door, which was only open a crack.
“There had better be a good reason for this.” Like the woman at the stagecoach stop, Kessler’s words bore a German accent, but it was not quite as thick, and easier to understand.
“I apologize for the late night call, sir,” Josiah said, standing back off the stoop. “But I have some bad news that I did not think could wait until a proper time.”
“Who are you?” Kessler demanded, running his hand through his hair trying to straighten it, all the while looking over Josiah’s shoulder, as if to see what lay in wait outside the iron fence that surrounded the tall two-story house that the mayor called home.
Darkness had completely fallen by the time Josiah and Scrap had found the mayor. It had been difficult for them to see two feet in front of themselves. There was no moon, hardly any light at all to guide their way. Even in the town of Neu-Braunfels, the victory of night had been won yet again, and darkness was nearly total.
Josiah had not been entirely sure he could find the correct house in the first place, but the woman in Stringtown had told him it was the biggest house on Main Street, just south of the town square—and it couldn’t be missed. There were other houses. But the woman was right. This was a grand house, one that looked to be of Yankee design. Josiah had seen houses of the type, with turrets and cantilevers, in Virginia.
“I beg your pardon. I’m Josiah Wolfe. I’m a Ranger.”
A freshly lit lamp burned on a table behind Kessler, flickering, casting shadows on a wall adorned with pink, red, and white flowered wallpaper. A clock ticked loudly in the distance, probably in the parlor. There was no question that the house was filled with finery that Josiah could hardly imagine.
“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.

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