Read The Rattlesnake Season Online
Authors: Larry D. Sweazy
The Rattlesnake Season (19 page)
Josiah nodded. He’d give the kid a bit of a break. Had to now that they had something in common. But that didn’t mean he liked Scrap Elliot. Maybe he just understood him a little bit more. “All right, then. But you have to follow my lead on the Indians hereabouts. Not every rock has a rattlesnake lying underneath it.”
“Well,” Scrap said. “I ’spect we’re about to find out.” He nodded, and Josiah followed his gaze.
The Indian that had stared down at them from the ridge was heading their way, across the river, followed by three other men—two more Tonkawa on horses and one Anglo on foot, who looked an awful lot like Vi McClure.
CHAPTER 16
Juan Carlos leaned forward, slid his hand down to his boot, and pulled up his pant leg.
There was no question now that the white man with the Tonkawa was Vi McClure, but even from where Josiah sat, he could see that the Scot was a prisoner, his hands bound behind his back and his waist tied in heavy hemp rope that connected to the last rider.
The big Scot looked weary and pale. He was staggering, his face dirtied and covered in scratches, like he had been pulled through a thicket of blackberry bushes. A bloodied cloth was loosely wrapped below the knee of his right leg, an obvious sign of the gunshot wound deposited by Willis, and each time McClure put his foot down to move forward—given little choice by the Tonkawa who had him bound to his horse—it looked to cause him a great deal of pain. A grimace was plastered on his face that made him barely recognizable.
Anything that put the old Mexican on alert made Josiah a little more than nervous, but he wasn’t sure why Juan Carlos was pulling the knife into a moment’s grasp—whether he was concerned about McClure, who looked like he was of little threat being as weak as he appeared, or the Tonkawa, which also didn’t make much sense, but then, Josiah thought, he really didn’t know how the Indians looked on a Mexican . . . or a Mexican on a Tonkawa. He was pretty sure Juan Carlos held the Tonkawa in a respectable regard . . . but he wasn’t entirely sure.
He didn’t want to move for his gun, didn’t want to encourage Scrap or startle the Tonkawa into an unnecessary shooting match . . . but the air had changed quickly, and now it was full of uncertainty and nervousness, even though the sky was blue and it was a perfect spring day.
Josiah had his doubts about what he was seeing, even though he had tried not to hold Vi McClure to account for the captain’s death.
At the moment, it looked like he had been wrong—and Scrap had been right. McClure was a killer and, worse, a traitor, a Charlie Langdon sympathizer, a member of the killer’s gang since he had run along with them. Josiah had to wonder how he could have been so stupid not to have seen through McClure’s act, but he would have never considered a Ranger to be a traitor. Especially one that had Captain Fikes’s approval.
The lead Indian stopped a few feet from the three men. “Josiah Wolfe?”
Curious, and surprised to hear his name come from an Indian’s mouth, Josiah nodded. “Yes.”
“I am Little Spots. I have a letter for you from Sergeant Feders.” The Indian pulled a neatly folded piece of parchment out of a small buffalo-hide satchel and offered it to Josiah.
Josiah nudged Clipper over to the Indian, took the letter, then backed away slowly, never taking his eyes off Little Spots, his two trail mates, or Vi McClure . . . who had offered nothing to say and would not look Josiah in the face. He hung his head down and massaged his leg with a low, aggravated, groan.
The letter was sealed with a bit of candle wax, and Josiah was mildly surprised that Feders had the utensils and the capability to send a proper letter—but once he thought about it, he realized he shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Captain Fikes had been a prolific letter writer, a top-notch communicator. Josiah had received a letter of the same sort ordering him to come to San Antonio to escort Charlie Langdon back to Tyler. Feders, more than anything else as far as Josiah could tell, was a student of the captain’s ways. It was, after a number of hard-battled days, a hopeful thought.
He broke the seal and read the letter:
Wolfe,If you are reading this letter, then Little Spots has been successful in finding you. Ranger McClure was left for dead, tied to a tree. He claims innocence. But that is neither your decision or mine to make. Retain him in close custody and see him to Austin, where he may make his own case to the proper authorities.I am continuing in pursuit of Charlie Langdon. We are heading north at the moment and a half day behind him. Please pass this communiqué on to Major Jones, or the nearest ranking Ranger, on your arrival, and unless the major has specific orders for you, await word from me about your next assignment.Please pass on the other letter, I have entrusted to Little Spots, to the captain’s wife and daughter. I fear I will miss the captain’s funeral while performing my duties, and it is my desire to convey my condolences personally.With regards,
Sergeant Peter L. Feders
Josiah took a deep breath, nodded slightly, then looked up and made direct eye contact with Vi McClure.
“ ’ Tis not true, what the sergeant says, Wolfe. I am innocent.”
“Feders made no judgment about your crimes, or lack of, and neither will I. You will have a chance to speak for yourself.” Josiah turned his attention to Little Spots. “I appreciate this. Is there anything we can offer you?”
Little Spots shook his head no. “Be wary. There is a battle coming on the northern plains. Though it may be far from here, those that were once enemies are gathering together against the buffalo hunters, against the white man. It will not matter to them that you are carrying the dead. The smell may draw them to you.”
“Thank you. I am aware of this coming together. We feared you were Comanche upon first sight of you.”
“There is nothing to fear from us,” Little Spots said. He handed another letter to Josiah, then pulled his horse back to the Indian who had custody of McClure and said, “Turn him over to them. We are glad to be rid of this darkness.”
The Indian, who looked a lot like Little Spots, so much so that they were probably brothers, agreed, and dismounted from his horse.
“Tie him to the back of the wagon, Elliot,” Josiah said, glaring at McClure.
“But ’tis a long walk to Austin, and my leg is more than a wee bit infected,” McClure protested.
“Then Juan Carlos will drag you.”
Scrap took the rope from the Indian, grabbing it away as quickly as possible, saying nothing to the Indian, and did as he was told, looking at Josiah with a shade of approval that had not been apparent before then.
Josiah noticed, but didn’t think much of the look. He felt as betrayed by McClure as the rest of them . . . now that it looked like he had been wrong. But he still favored the opportunity for a man to prove himself innocent if it were possible.
Once Scrap secured McClure to the back of the buckboard, Little Spots and the other two Indians rode off slowly at first, then broke into a full gallop, heading northeast, probably to catch up with Feders. At least that was the assumption Josiah was left to make on his own.
Juan Carlos relaxed, let his pant leg fall back over his boot, and urged on the horse that was pulling the wagon.
“ ’ Tis not right, Wolfe, pullin’ me along like a low-life criminal. An injured one at that. I could die out here.”
A hawk screeched overhead, drawing Josiah’s attention momentarily away from McClure and the trail ahead.
San Marcos was over the next hill, and Austin wasn’t too far beyond that. The journey with the Scot wouldn’t last too long, and for that, Josiah was grateful.
The Tonkawa probably had little desire to ride into the capital city. Not with every Indian, friend and foe alike, under the cloud of suspicion that they were gathering for another battle. Some men, like Scrap, didn’t trust anyone whose skin was not white . . . while others, like Josiah, didn’t trust any man white or red, and if he did, it seemed he always came to regret it, sooner rather than later. Like now. With Vi McClure.
“There’s a few critters who’d be happy for that, McClure,” Josiah said. “It sure would save a lot of people a lot of grief if you’d oblige them by departing this world before we reached Austin. But something tells me that won’t happen. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
It did not take long before El Camino Real crossed the San Marcos River.
The town of San Marcos had only been settled by Anglos for about thirty years or so, and as in San Antonio, there was no railroad that serviced the town . . . yet. But with all of the ginning and milling that sustained the coffers of the town bank, it was only a question of time before the railroaders took notice and started laying track to connect San Marcos, and all of South Texas, with the rest of the state.
Josiah was not bitter about the railroad; he had just seen how it changed people’s lives for better and for worse. If the tracks had come through Seerville, he’d probably still be the marshal, still following in his father’s footsteps, still questioning himself about why he had ever trusted Charlie Langdon enough to appoint him as his deputy in the first place.
Still, after all these years, Josiah didn’t have an answer for that, for why he had trusted Charlie.
His mind was foggy for more than a few years after the war. Charlie had come home a hero, a survivor, a teller of tales, and Josiah had seen him commit acts of courage more than once. What was missing were acts of honor. Now that he thought about it, honor had always been hard to find among Charlie’s actions. The only thing that was consistent, the one thing that always accompanied Charlie Langdon, was blood—and death. Always. If honor was present, it was left on the battlefield, and the dead told no tales . . . at least that anyone cared to hear.
Nevertheless, questioning himself as they made their way through San Marcos was not the thing to do, and Josiah knew it. Doubt had been a constant companion in the last few days, and honestly, he was about as tired of its company as he was of Scrap Elliot’s.
The lack of a railroad had prompted him to think of home, and he pushed thoughts of Charlie Langdon away—for the moment, always for the moment—and allowed his mind to return to Lyle, to Ofelia, to home.
Josiah had not seen a post office in the small river town, so he halted Clipper and the rest of the ragged crew: Scrap, a new recruit, hungry for revenge, anxious to kill an Indian, any Indian, for the crimes committed against his family; Juan Carlos, a Mexican wanted by the sheriff of San Antonio for an act that was not a crime, but an act of bravery—the type of honor that Charlie Langdon lacked; and Vi McClure, a Ranger suspected of murdering Captain Hiram Fikes—who claimed innocence but had witnesses and actions piling up against his version of the truth. This band of men was surely a curious sight to most onlookers . . . though McClure, for all intents and purposes, was the only one of them that looked like a prisoner.
A man passed by, who looked more like a banker than anything else, stopping only when Josiah bid him a good day and asked for directions to the nearest place to post a letter.
“Onion Creek, just before you get to Austin,” the man said, then hurried off, looking over his shoulder as if the crew of men were inflicted with consumption, or a contagious disease of some other type.
Sometime between San Marcos and Onion Creek, Josiah needed to draft a letter to Ofelia, to Lyle, who would not understand a word of it, but perhaps would have it in his possession later in life—if something happened to Josiah on the trail. Josiah had a strong desire to tell Lyle how much he meant to him. How much Josiah missed him—all the while knowing that what he was doing was the only thing in life he knew how to do. Someday, he hoped, his son would come to understand that fact.
“Wolfe,” Vi McClure said, almost screamed, while they were sitting there. “I can’t make it any farther. Me legs are about to fall off. The infection is tearing my heart out with pain. A wee bit of whiskey, and a ride on the back of the wagon, would be appreciated.”
Josiah stared at McClure, then turned to Scrap Elliot. “Give him a swig of water, Elliot. Then help him up on the buckboard.”
“You sure have been acting a lot like a captain lately,” Scrap said, sliding off his saddle. He started to share his own water with McClure, then stopped, looked around, and saw a bucket and a ladle just outside the mercantile across the street. Scrap walked over to the store with an intentionally slow swagger, filled the ladle, then brought it back to McClure. “That’s all you get.”
“You’re a wee wet behind the ears to start acting like a real Ranger.” McClure downed the water, but saved a bit and blew a spray of it out of his mouth at Scrap.
“Dang it! I ought to let the horses trample you right here,” Scrap shouted, raising his fist and wiping his face with his other hand.
“Elliot,” Josiah yelled. “Stop it. McClure. Get up on the back of the wagon, and keep your mouth shut. If I hear another word from you, I’ll let Ranger Elliot drag you into Austin behind his horse . . . and I doubt there’ll be one bit of sympathy for your wounds.”
McClure slowly climbed up on the back of the wagon without saying anything—but it was obvious he was less than pleased, even though Josiah had done him a great favor by allowing him to ride into Austin, instead of forcing him to limp up and down all the hills in between.
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