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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

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BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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“I’ll take your advice.” Josiah nodded, then brought them all to a stop with a raised hand. He quickly released the rope that bound Juan Carlos’s legs to the buckboard.
They had rolled McClure’s body in the blanket that had covered the captain’s coffin, and laid him out in the buckboard as well.
The dead horse had been left for the coyotes and wolves. Luckily, Fat Susie and the other trail horse had survived the shooting unscathed, though both were jumpier than before the ambush.
Josiah and Juan Carlos had no problem navigating through the streets of “Little Mexico,” as Juan Carlos had called this section of Austin.
The buckboard was given a wide berth. It was almost like their arrival had been announced ahead of time.
Some businesses were closed, shades drawn. Most everyone stopped as they passed, Anglo and Mexican alike—though there were far more Mexicans to be seen than Anglos. Hats were doffed, hearts covered, eyes lowered. A few Mexican women wept openly once they realized there was a coffin on the back of the wagon.
Someone shouted, “
Las vidas del capitán en nuestros corazones
.”
Juan Carlos nodded and said to Josiah, “The captain lives in our hearts.”
“He was a hero here?”
“
Por todas partes
. Everywhere. Captain Fikes was an amigo to most everyone. Mexicano or Anglo.”
The clapboard buildings in “Little Mexico” gave way to the square, a vast open space dotted with towering trees, and people began to become sparse along the street that cut through the field to the courthouse and jail block.
“I trust you will be all right once I relieve myself of your custody,” Josiah said quietly to Juan Carlos, making sure Scrap did not get a whiff of his plan to set Juan Carlos free instead of turning him over for trial.
McClure’s death had solidified the idea, the thought, even though he had been struggling over the rights and wrongs of such a release since Juan Carlos had joined them in Neu-Braunfels.
Josiah owed the Mexican his life, and as much as he trusted the captain’s reputation to proceed them into Austin and keep Juan Carlos safe, in the arms of justice, he also was not naïve. The level of hate most Anglos felt against any Mexican was worn openly—the captain was a rarity.
Juan Carlos could just as easily get ambushed in the jail—with no place to go—as they had been on the trail.
The tricky part would be keeping Scrap at bay, making him believe the escape was not premeditated, that Josiah himself had not subjugated the law and in the end become a criminal himself.
“I will be fine. I have family here,” Juan Carlos said with a knowing glance. “They will know of my situation soon enough, if they do not already. And Pearl, she will know, too. I will not be alone.”
“Pearl?”
“The captain’s daughter. She is like my own flesh and blood.” A slight smile crossed Juan Carlos’s weathered face. “Do not take her for a fool, or you will suffer greatly.”
Josiah said nothing.
He had a duty to do—to both the captain and Juan Carlos, and as soon as he was finished, certain that he was successful, he hoped to return home, briefly, to see Lyle and tend to his needs if there were any, then head on to the Red River camp with the other Rangers.
He had no plans of taking anyone for a fool.
Especially a woman.
CHAPTER 19
Josiah had to fight off the flies that were swarming over McClure’s body when he tied Clipper to the back of the buckboard alongside Fat Susie and the remaining trail horse. They were stopped outside the jail block, and much to Josiah’s relief, a crowd had gathered around the buckboard, though they kept a respectful distance . . . at least out of range of the flies and the stink of death.
Scrap did not question Josiah’s action.
Once they finished this leg of the journey, meant to be the successful turning over of Juan Carlos to the sheriff, Josiah would have to take over the duty of guiding the buckboard through the streets of Austin, and delivering the coffin to the Fikes’s home.
The kid had dismounted his horse, Missy, and was standing on the boardwalk in front of the jail, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol, a .36-caliber Paterson Colt.
Josiah knew Scrap carried the Paterson because of another Texas Ranger, John Coffee Hays.
Hays was an early Ranger whose campaign against the Comanche in the forties was legendary now. That campaign was considered one of the first fully landed punches in the long fight against the Comanche in Texas. A Lipan Apache chief called Hays, who was little more than a kid himself when he became a Ranger, “Bravo-Too-Much.” It didn’t surprise Josiah that Scrap envied Hays’s stature and wanted to be like him as much as possible.
“Damn flies,” Josiah said out loud, swatting the insects away from his face.
Scrap laughed. “That traitor sure did draw the biters.”
“You should be a little more respectful of the dead,” Josiah said. He crossed around behind Clipper, chiding Scrap all the way, then stopped face-to-face with the kid—whose back was now to Juan Carlos.
“McClure’ll surely rot in hell,” Scrap said with a smirk. “Already is as far as that goes. Not a second too soon, either, if you ask me.”
“You seem pretty positive that McClure had something to pay a penance for.”
“I am. I most certainly am.”
“The man deserved a fair trial, not being shot in cold blood like he was.”
Scrap looked down to his boots. Kicked his right one, then stared back at Josiah without saying anything else.
“He killed the captain. That’s that. Any misery that came to McClure after that was misery he brought on himself.”
Josiah squared his shoulders. “You’re positive of that, aren’t you?”
Scrap started to say something, casting a quick glance over his shoulder before a word escaped his mouth. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing: an empty seat on the buckboard.
Juan Carlos was gone.
“Where’s the Mexican?” Scrap demanded, turning and unholstering his Paterson at the same time.
“Well, now look what you’ve done, Elliot,” Josiah scolded, scanning the crowd for a sight of Juan Carlos, glad to see nothing that resembled the old man.
A mass of Mexicans was swarming the street, and to Scrap they probably all looked alike. Josiah had to forcibly keep a smile from crossing his face.
“Me? Why is it my fault?” Scrap said, stretching his neck up and about, looking everywhere for Juan Carlos. “Damn it. I can’t see nothing but Mexicans. He could be staring me in the face and I wouldn’t know it.”
“How am I supposed to keep an eye on somebody when I’m behind the wagon, then behind a horse?”
“You let him go, then.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why wouldn’t you? You’ve been chummin’ with him since he showed up in Neu-Braunfels.”
Josiah stared at Scrap and could tell the kid wasn’t quite sure of his accusation, was searching for a way out of the mess he’d seemingly found himself in. “You saw the bindings on his legs as clear as I did. His wrists were bound, too, only with enough give for him to navigate the wagon. How, exactly, did I let him go?”
“I don’t know, but you did.”
“Well, you better go after him. I’ll let the sheriff know what happened.”
Scrap hesitated, the look on his face showing that he was actively rethinking his immediate accusation. “Maybe the ropes came loose,” he finally said.
“Yeah, maybe they did,” Josiah said with a sigh, as Scrap took off and disappeared into the crowd himself.
I hope those ropes stay off, Josiah thought to himself. And, as sad as it was, he hoped he never saw Juan Carlos again. He hoped the old Mexican would live out his life safely, in secret, now that his protector and friend, Captain Hiram Fikes, was dead. But something told Josiah that his hope was a waste of effort. He would surely see Juan Carlos again, and the circumstances were bound to be unpleasant.
Before Josiah climbed back up on the wagon, the sheriff, a sprite younger man with a finely waxed mustache, approached him hesitantly.
“I would imagine you are going to deliver the body of Captain Fikes to his home?”
Josiah nodded. The sheriff’s clothes smelled clean, and his coat hardly had a speck of dust on it. His name was Rory Farnsworth, and the stiff, tart lawman had made it quick business to let Josiah know that he had attended college out east before returning to Texas. After, of course, Josiah had informed the sheriff of Juan Carlos’s “escape.”
Sheriff Farnsworth sent out two deputies to aid Scrap in the search, but showed little excitement about the Mexican’s whereabouts. He was more concerned with wagging Josiah’s ear about his stature as a lawman.
Sheriffs must drink a special brand of whiskey, Josiah thought to himself. One that raises their opinion of themselves to a dangerously high level. It’d be like living on a cliff as far as Josiah was concerned. He was glad he’d never developed a taste for whiskey.
Then the sheriff had gone on and on, babbling about his family life as if it mattered to Josiah.
Farnsworth was more than pompously proud of himself—he was elated with himself. According to Farnsworth his bloodline had dictated a higher calling, but he had bucked his family’s view of how he should live his life as a legislator back east. Instead, he had taken up the badge in the rough-and-tumble state of Texas, rebelling and finding his true calling, all at once. It was a serious, if underpaid, vocation, as far as Farnsworth was concerned, but he felt certain he was up to the daily challenge of maintaining peace, reeling in ruffians, and shooting an exact and deadly shot if it was required of him.
Educated men, especially educated lawmen, who were vocally concerned about their legacy, unsettled Josiah, made him more nervous than a shoot-out in a wide-open canyon.
He wanted to get away from the jail block as quickly as possible. Especially considering that his last encounter with a sheriff, specifically Sheriff J. T. Patterson, hadn’t turned out too well as far as Josiah was concerned. He was convinced that the sheriff in San Antonio was responsible for the captain’s death, since before dying McClure had named him as one of the men in the fleeing gang after the captain had been killed. A murderous lawman, indeed, even though it didn’t make sense. Still, a lawman with a bad streak was not unprecedented.
He gave Farnsworth the information about Patterson that McClure had given him, but the sheriff did not seem inclined to take the accusation too seriously. He said he would pass on the information . . . as would Josiah.
At that moment, Josiah wondered how Sam Willis and Pete Feders had fared in their quest. He didn’t know if they were still alive, in pursuit of Charlie Langdon, or had him in custody. Sheriff Farnsworth had no news for him on that front.
“I do plan on delivering the captain home. As quickly as I can,” Josiah said to the sheriff, looking out into the crowd that was still gathered around the buckboard. “As soon as Ranger Elliot returns. I doubt he would be able to find the captain’s home if you drew him a map.”
“And the other dead man? What are your plans for him?”
“I’m hoping for directions to the undertaker.”
“Be about two blocks up and on your right. Once you’re there, you’re not too far from the captain’s house. You won’t be able to miss it. Go about half a mile past the governor’s mansion, turn right on the third alleyway, and the house sits about another half mile down the way on the right. Same man that was responsible for the governor’s mansion also built the captain’s house. Abner Cook, do you know of him?” the sheriff asked.
“Can’t say that I do. My father built my cabin.” With that, Josiah climbed up on the buckboard and took the reins into his hands. “I’ll check back after I’ve settled in, and give the circuit court judge my testimony, if need be, about Juan Carlos.”
“There’s no need to worry, Ranger Wolfe. It is well known here in Austin that Captain Hiram Fikes and Juan Carlos were longtime friends. It does not surprise me that he made his way into the streets. He’s probably down yonder in the place they call ‘Little Mexico,’ deep in the arms of a woman by now, and swilling tequila.”
BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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