The Rattlesnake Season (18 page)

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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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After the storm passed, and Scrap shot at the badger, there were no other events of the day that brought any immediate concern to Josiah. The well-worn trail transformed into a wider road, known to everyone as El Camino Real, and it would take them a good way toward their destination.
Josiah’s mind
was
on edge because of the old Mexican’s warning of Indians and Scrap’s constant disconcerting actions—but finally, the rhythm of the ride had calmed them all into a silent drive northward. There was nothing he could do about outlaws, renegade Indians, or trigger-happy boys but keep an eye out and proceed on with his duty to deliver the captain to his final resting place in the capital of Austin.
Night came and went with Josiah and Scrap trading off watch duties. Juan Carlos filled in as cook, and did a fine job, though his rabbit was a little tougher than Vi McClure’s. It probably had more to do with the age of the rabbit and nothing to do with the old Mexican’s cooking method. But still, Josiah noticed, and he wondered about the big Scot, wondered if he were dead or alive . . . and silently hoped the latter was true.
Coyotes yipped. Owls hooted. Josiah passed the time by whistling. And a cloudless sky stretched overhead.
On previous nights, the moon could not be seen, but on this night, a sliver rose in the sky, a waxing crescent that barely lit the ground. But the dim moonlight succeeded in creating a forest of shadows in the valleys and canyons that could be seen from the top of the hill the camp had been set on, forcing Josiah to second-guess everything he heard or thought he saw moving.
Once an owl flew over his head and he nearly shot at it, nearly acted as impulsively as Scrap Elliot. It was probably that thought that kept him from pulling the carbine’s trigger.
The captain’s body lay undisturbed in the coffin on the back of the buckboard, close enough to the fire to ward off any seekers of carrion, but far enough away not to encourage the further quickening of rot and decay.
Juan Carlos did not stray far from the buckboard, and he and Josiah were both well aware that the smell of death attracted all kinds of creatures—seen and unseen—but so far they had not had to run any such creatures off.
There was nothing they could do about the swarms of flies that constantly hovered during the warm day, but at least at night the flies tended to disappear to somewhere unknown.
Josiah was glad he would not have to lay eyes on the captain’s mortal body again. Now, like all of those who had passed on, the only form the captain would be able to take was in his memory, a flickering image that, as Josiah knew all too well, would fade quickly with time.
Some days he could not remember what Lily’s voice sounded like, and would give anything to hear her whisper in his ear, swear her true love to his heart—and he to her.
He knew that with time he would have to strain to hear the captain’s voice—the commands, the duties, and the lessons—he would need to learn how to be a new kind of Ranger, riding with a new, unknown captain. That is if he chose to remain a Ranger, now that the captain was dead.
He hadn’t thought much about his future, since there were unfulfilled tasks at hand, but there was a nagging pull in his stomach, something he knew he would have to examine once he was free of his duties in Austin and facing Pete Feders again, awaiting his next set of orders.
He wasn’t sure if Feders would be made a captain, but he guessed that would happen. But that sure didn’t mean he would be riding with the man who was always Captain Hiram Fikes’s second in command.
There was only one order that Josiah was interested in taking from Feders, or whoever his new captain would be, and that order was to track down and bring in Charlie Langdon. Beyond that Josiah was not certain what he would do.
As the days ticked by, he knew that the pull to return home would become stronger and stronger, especially now that Captain Fikes was dead. Just as he had to strain to hear the captain and Lily speak or sing, he also had to strain to hear the coos and giggles of his son. At times, it was almost as if Lyle were dead, too.
“We are not far from the Rio Blanco,” Juan Carlos said, bringing the wagon to a stop.
The brake creaked, and Josiah feared the axle might be about to give out. It had been hard going since leaving Neu-Braunfels.
“How hard is this river to cross?” Scrap asked.
Josiah had pulled Clipper ahead of the wagon, looked out in the distance, then circled back. “Looks like some spots of the river run underground, so there is nothing but boulders and shrubs up ahead, as far I can tell,” he said.
Morning light dappled on a rise of more limestone outcroppings that then gave way to rolling green-topped hills in the distance. Austin was still a long way off, another day at least, probably a day and a half.
“
Sí
. We are not too near the narrows, a deep ravine with treacherous rapids. It will not be a problem here where the river falls beneath the earth.”
Josiah nodded, urged Clipper on, and headed north again. He could hear the river running the closer they got to it, but the sound was muffled, since it dropped under the earth where they were crossing. The ground rumbled, vibrated from the power underneath his horse’s hooves. He had never felt anything so strange in his life.
The spring rains had swollen the streambeds, and rushing, muddy water gushed up out of a well-worn hole in the ground not too far ahead of Josiah.
The roiling water hadn’t crested the banks of the streambed, but it was close to flooding over into a well-defined floodplain. It would have been impossible to navigate the buckboard across the Blanco River if the rushing water had broken out of its banks and not been contained in an underground riverbed.
Their timing was just right.
The limestone ledges stair-stepped upward to about fifty feet at the pinnacle, then flattened out. Grasses and bushes grew happily on the rocky shelves, while the top of the outcropping was dotted with various types of trees: elm, mesquite, juniper, and oak. The trail edged along the river, in between the bank and the limestone stairs.
Josiah thought about doing some hunting on top of the limestone, but decided that it was too late in the day.
There would be plenty of creatures that lived near the water. Swallows were already swarming, diving, and soaring widely over the water, eating as many flies as they could gather in their open mouths. And he’d seen signs of plenty of rabbit, deer, and coyote—their paw prints pressed in the fresh mud.
He’d probably have more luck hunting closer to evening, if they found themselves near a watering hole.
The last bit of fresh meat was stowed away on the wagon, and all that was left of the dry goods, beans, and jerky—as well as the food sent along from Mayor Kessler, but there was no way they were breaking into mourning food, food meant to save the captain’s family some trouble and give them a bit of comfort.
A cedar tree stood in the middle of the streambed that grew quickly into a river, and there was a large nest in the top of the tree, which, at the moment, appeared to be vacant.
Knowing little about hawks or eagles and their mating times, Josiah wasn’t sure if there would be eggs in the nest or not. He hadn’t seen any big birds in the sky recently, but then he hadn’t been looking, either.
The tree looked a little spindly to try and climb anyway, but for some reason, food was solidly on Josiah’s mind.
He was almost tempted to challenge Scrap to climb the tree, taking advantage of the kid’s eagerness to prove himself. But he couldn’t bring himself to indulge in that kind of behavior. It just wasn’t his way. Besides, it was probably past time for fresh eggs anyway. Chicks were probably hunkered down inside the nest, eyeing him with fright and uncertainty. There was no way Josiah could bring himself to kill a chick, a youngster of any kind. Not now.
His life would have to depend on killing and eating something tough and old, like the rabbit Juan Carlos had cooked the night before.
There were moments when he wondered what the hell he was doing, riding the trail as a Ranger, when he had most certainly lost his nerve, his gut instinct to kill.
Men with Soldier’s Heart talked of the same thing, all the while battling for their own measures of sanity. He wasn’t crazy. He was sure of that. And if he had the opportunity to shoot Charlie Langdon square in the forehead, then he wouldn’t hesitate, not for one second. He longed to be the one to face Charlie down, and that in itself reassured him that he wasn’t crazy, or useless, or, worse, a coward who’d lost his trigger finger.
There was no question in Josiah’s mind that if it came down to killing or being killed, his instincts were ready to awaken.
Juan Carlos brought the wagon to a stop again, this time more suddenly, a loud “Whoa” accompanying his hard pull on the reins.
Uncertain why Juan had stopped, Josiah swung Clipper back around, just in time to see Scrap Elliot reaching to pull his rifle out of its saddle sheath and aim upward, at the top of a rocky cliff.
An Indian sat on a pale white stallion, staring down at them.
“Don’t shoot,” Josiah yelled at Scrap.
Scrap settled his rifle against his cheek and sighted the Indian, ignoring Josiah’s command.
“I’m serious, Elliot, don’t shoot.”
Josiah quickly unholstered the Peacemaker and brought the gun straight up so the barrel was even with his face, pointing straight into the sky.
“You’re serious?” Scrap smirked.
“Yes.”
Juan Carlos sat impatiently on the seat of the buckboard. He had no firearm that Josiah knew of. It had been taken into small account by everyone but Scrap that the Mexican was harmless, more a hero than a killer, but since there was a warrant out for him . . . Josiah had insisted that he hand over his weapon, a small-caliber derringer that looked more like a woman’s gun.
Both men, Josiah and the Mexican, knew, of course, that Juan Carlos had a knife stuffed inside his right boot. Josiah had been blessed at the Menger by that very same blade . . . his life saved because of his weariness and lack of scouting. Scrap wasn’t aware of the knife, and that was just fine with Josiah.
The Indian appeared to be alone. He sat on the pale white horse, looking down on the three men.
He wore a deerskin breechclout and no shirt, which showed, even at a distance, black lines drawn permanently onto the Indian’s sun-bronzed skin. Buckskin leggings covered his legs, and bison-hide moccasins protected his feet. A small white feather hung on a braid of black hair that glistened in the sun. There was no sign of any garb, no headdress or war bonnet, that suggested he was a warrior or intent on attack. He looked more like a scout.
“He is Tonkawa,” Juan Carlos said.
“He is a not threat, Elliot. Put the gun down,” Josiah ordered. He knew the Tonkawa didn’t wear war bonnets; they were nothing like the Comanche.
“Ain’t no such thing as a redskin who’s not a savage killer. They are a threat to every living, breathing Anglo in Texas and beyond, and I mean to make certain the threat is extinguished.” Spit spewed out of Scrap’s mouth, and his finger trembled on the trigger.
Josiah pointed the Peacemaker at Scrap’s head. “I’m not asking, Elliot.”
Tears welled up in Scrap’s eyes. “Comanches killed my ma and pa, Wolfe,” he said through gritted teeth. “Butchered them like they were animals.”
“This Indian is a friend, not a Comanche. They have scouted for the Rangers for years. Now remove your aim.” Josiah cocked the hammer in position, knowing full well he was on the Colt’s empty chamber.
Scrap let out a yell that was as painful as it was startling, then let the barrel of his rifle drop.
Josiah breathed a secret sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted to account for to Pete Feders or Major John B. Jones was a dead Tonkawa. When he looked back up to the top of the rock, the Indian was gone.
“We have not seen the last of that one,” Juan Carlos said.
“I hope you’re wrong,” Josiah answered.
“They are probably aware of the captain’s death. They have been following us for many miles, and will more than likely see us into Austin.”
Josiah was annoyed at Juan Carlos. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you would see for yourself. But I was wrong.”
“Yes, you were.”
Juan Carlos nodded. “My apologies, Señor Wolfe.”
“No need. I know what to look for. I just missed the signs for some reason.”
“Indians don’t protect no one,” Scrap interjected, wiping a tear away from his eye with his sleeve.
Josiah lowered the Peacemaker’s hammer back into position, holstered the gun, then eased Clipper over next to Scrap.
“You’ve got a little learning to do about Indians and the like. This isn’t Cooke County. There is such a thing as friendlys.” He paused, saw the pain of loss twisted across Scrap’s face, and recognized a bit of himself in the hard, frightened glare that stared back at him. “How long have your ma and pa been dead?”
“Little over a year. Only family I got left is a little sister, Myra Lynn. She’s with a friend of my ma’s, a church lady that will raise Myra Lynn right. I couldn’t do it. Don’t know nothing about being a pa to a half-growed little girl. I send money when I can. Get home even less. Some days I hope I never see Myra Lynn again ’cause she looks just like my ma, and it brings all those bad memories right to the top of my head. Other days, that’s all I want to do, ride home as straightaway as I can ’cause my heart is longing to see my mama’s eyes.”

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