The Rattlesnake Season (25 page)

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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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“Sounds like the captain’s wife has plenty of ambition of her own.”
“
Sí, señor, sí.
”
“That’s good to know,” Josiah said, staring up at the house, glad to be relegated as far from it as possible.
“Once you get your bath, Ranger Wolfe, you will be expected in the main house for a meal,” Pedro said, almost like he could read Josiah’s mind and mood. “The other one, as well.”
Josiah looked at Pedro curiously. “The other one?”
“The one you call Scrap.”
Josiah dropped his head, looking forward even less to the event now that he was expected to share it with Scrap. But his disappointment only lasted for a second. He jerked his head straight up. “I almost forgot.” He went to the back of the buckboard and began unloading from the surviving trail horse’s leather cargo bags the bread, strudel, cakes, and cheeses Mayor Kessler had sent ahead.
A door slammed in the house, echoing across the meadow like a gunshot. Josiah started, and reached for his Peacemaker without any thought of what he was doing. The madam, Mrs. Fikes, shouted for Pedro to come. Her voice was shrill, demanding, reaching every inch of the estate, and probably beyond.
A cold chill traveled down Josiah’s spine. He let go of the gun.
The Mexican servant stiffened. “No need, Ranger Wolfe, I’ll have the goods brought to the house. Leave them here,” Pedro said, nervously.
“They’re from the mayor in Neu-Braunfels, the . . . madam’s cousin.” Josiah wasn’t sure what to call the captain’s wife. The madam seemed an awfully strange thing to call a woman.
Pedro forced a smile. “Come to the main house as soon as you are respectable, but there is no need to hurry.”
The captain’s wife shouted again. This time, she appeared on the opposite balcony from where Josiah had first spied Pearl; she was leaning over the rail, her right hand at her brow shielding the sun as she looked for Pedro.
“Good. I’ll need some time,” Josiah said, mainly to himself, watching keenly as Pedro hurried up to the house without saying another word.
There was something about Pedro that just didn’t set right with Josiah. He just couldn’t figure out what that something was. Or if it really mattered in the first place.
Scrap was lounging in a steaming bath, smoking a quirley, a hand-rolled cigarette, his head resting on the rim of the wood tub. He opened his eyes briefly when Josiah entered the bathhouse, casting him a quick disapproving glance, then closed his eyes just as quickly as he had opened them.
Four tubs sat on a wood-planked floor. A roof jutted out, protecting the bathers from the sun and weather. Three-quarter walls rose up on three sides. The back wall was actually the rear of the carriage house, from which Josiah had entered. There was no other way in or out. Red-hot coals from a well-maintained fire flickered in the bottom of a stone fireplace that had been built on the outside wall. A big pot of steaming water hung from an iron bracket in the center.
Several sets of tables and chairs were scattered about, and there were wood storage closets all along the far wall. Josiah supposed that within the closets there were towels, soaps, and whatever else a man would need to clean himself. He’d been in plenty of hotels that were far less equipped than this place.
A shave was more than necessary, as far as he was concerned, and he hoped there was a good blade and a mirror stowed away somewhere for his use.
A short Mexican, one of the men who’d carried the captain’s coffin inside the main house, stood in the corner, obviously to be of service to their needs. He nodded to Josiah when he entered the bath. “
Hola,
” Josiah said, returning the gesture.
A full tub was waiting for him, just like Pedro said it would be. He stuck his finger in the water to test it. The temperature was just right.
“How come you like Mexicans so much, Wolfe?” Scrap asked, sitting up.
Josiah disrobed, piling his clothes just within reach, along with his gun. He didn’t answer Scrap until he settled fully in the water. He hadn’t told Scrap about Ofelia, and he wasn’t going to now. “Not sure that I like or dislike them any better than I do anybody else. What have you got against them?”
Scrap ground out the quirley on the rim of the tub. “I don’t know, Wolfe. Maybe it was the Alamo that did it. Sometimes I can’t figure you out . . . if you’re really a Texan like the rest of us or not.”
The water felt good. Josiah wanted to relax. He’d had his fill of arguing with Scrap . . . which seemed like it had been a constant occurrence since they’d left San Antonio. “There’s a supper in the main house. We’re expected to be there after we get respectable.”
“Are you?”
“What, Elliot?”
“A Texan like the rest of us?”
“I’m a Ranger. That’s all that matters to you.”
“It don’t matter to me. Not really. I know what you are.”
“And what’s that?” Josiah demanded, clenching his fingers under the water. He glanced over to the table his Peacemaker sat on.
“Ain’t no sense in gettin’ all riled, Wolfe. I’m just pokin’ fun at you. You’re a Texas Ranger, that’s what you are.”
“Sometimes I sure don’t see what Captain Fikes saw in you, Elliot. I guess I’ll have to trust his judgment about you, but I’ll be damned if I know why I should. You’re one of the most obstinate boys I’ve ever come to know.”
“I’m the best shot this side of Fort Worth. Ain’t no more or less to it than that. The captain needed a good, honest shot, and I was it.”
Josiah stopped and thought about what Scrap had just said. The only time he’d seen Scrap pull a gun was at the ambush just outside of Austin, and Josiah was so busy fending off the shooters, he didn’t see Scrap shoot anything. Didn’t matter, other than that the two shooters got away. But every other time in his life Josiah had run into a man who claimed to be the best shot around, well, that man was always practicing shooting, always pulling his gun out of the holster as fast as he could. Scrap hadn’t done anything that would back up his claim.
“We’ll have to see about that sometime, Elliot. But let’s just put this aside for now. I’d like a quiet bath.”
Scrap started to say something, but Josiah didn’t let him.
“I’m serious, Elliot, I want to take this damn bath in peace. Put it aside.”
Scrap shook his head, bit the corner of his lip, then stood up out of the water angrily.
Before he could cover up, Josiah noticed a multitude of scars on Scrap’s back. There was no mistaking that Scrap’s skin had been permanently disfigured by fire. Hot fire. Nearly all of the kid’s back was affected in one way or another. The scars were old and healed over, but they still looked painful.
Josiah turned fully away as Scrap grabbed up a towel and covered his back as quickly as he could.
Josiah closed his eyes, settled down as far as he could into the tub, and tried to let go of his thoughts. But all he could think of was Scrap telling him how his parents had been killed by the Comanche. There was clearly more to that story, probably more than Josiah wanted to know, if the truth be told.
Just about every time he’d had his fill of Scrap Elliot, the kid seemed to give him a reason to like him a little more. Maybe all he needed was someone to watch out for him and show him how to be a Ranger, and maybe more of a man.
CHAPTER 22
Josiah sat on the bench staring at the pond. It was the first time he’d been totally alone since leaving San Antonio. He felt like he could finally breathe, think things through, now that Scrap had stalked off, angry again—still in search of some elusive sort who would listen to his tales and tolerate his wearisome attitudes.
The silence, like the bath, was refreshing.
The Mexican had given him a nice shave and provided him with a clean pair of trousers and a shirt that nearly fit him perfectly. Now he almost felt like the last couple of days hadn’t happened, since the dirt had been washed off his skin, out from under his fingernails, and from behind his ears. He almost felt like a new man. Almost. A good meal and then a good night’s sleep would complete the circle.
The day was coming to an end, and he wasn’t any closer to knowing when he’d return home to his son, Lyle, than he’d been the day before. That was his only concern, the only pull on his soul, at the moment.
Lyle was never far from his thoughts, and there hadn’t been any word from Feders. No orders. Nothing. All he could do was wait . . . in this place where he wore a stranger’s clothes and did not know the rules or where he fit in.
Mayflies buzzed and swerved about the pond. Frog eyes peered up at him along the banks, uncertain if he was a threat, reacting to every movement he made.
The sun was about to sit its bottom on the horizon, a rolling, bumpy set of hills that stretched on for as far as the eye could see. Cattails swayed in a slight breeze, and across the shallow pond, a heron stalked after its prey, one slow step at a time, watching, listening, for any opportunity to kill its next meal successfully.
Josiah watched the bird for a long time, allowing himself not to think about much of anything. It was a nice change of pace. Until he realized that he was expected to have dinner at the main house.
The sun was nearly gone, and the sky was fading from blue to gray, but not before several fingers of soft pink light reached out from the west, creating a spectacular sunset.
He started to stand up, but immediately sat back down on the bench when he heard footsteps approaching behind him.
He had seen her out of the corner of his eye, blond hair shimmering in the dusky evening light, and knew immediately that he was trapped and needed to flee.
Josiah looked every which way for an escape route, but there was no way he could leave without being seen and taken for rude. Manners, man, manners, he said to himself, standing quickly, and coming face-to-face with Pearl Fikes for the first time.
His chest vibrated and he nearly quit breathing, she was so beautiful. Even in her state of mourning, she was a rare, shining flower in a field of darkness.
The heron squawked angrily as it lit into the air, flushed from its preferred hunting spot. The bird’s long blue wings barely cleared the cattails as it flew off, opposite the sunset.
“Good evening,” the woman said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
She was dressed in black widow’s weeds that were far more simple than those that her mother had been wearing earlier in the day. Her dress fell to the ground, over her feet, her boots hidden, and she didn’t wear a hat or veil of any sort. Her hair flowed over her shoulders like a river of gold cascading over a waterfall in some imaginary land. Her eyes were blue, deeper than the color of the heron’s wings, and not fragile at all.
There was an ache in her eyes that Josiah recognized. Death always sucked the sparkle out of a mourner’s eyes first, then aimed to steal the will to live after it was done grinding away any sight of joy.
“No, ma’am.” Josiah removed his hat, and nodded deeply, so much so that the action was almost a bow. “I was just taking a moment to enjoy this pond. I will leave you to yourself.”
“No,” she said, reaching and touching his arm, stopping him from walking away, “please stay.”
The warmth of her touch pierced the long sleeve of the linen shirt he was wearing. She pulled her fingers away quickly.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Josiah Wolfe. I was a Ranger with Captain Fikes.” He didn’t want to assume the woman was Pearl, but she most certainly had to be.
“I know. Pedro told me. I’m Pearl. The captain was my father.”
“I assumed as much.”
“We can sit.”
Before he thought about what he was about to say, the words jumped out of his mouth, “Is that proper? I mean, sitting out here with a stranger . . . without a chaperone?”
“Please, Josiah, I am long past needing a chaperone. Unless, of course, you’re a dangerous man.” A smile flittered across Pearl’s face, then disappeared quickly, like the bird flying away from the sunset, out of sight, dim light making its wings glow for the longest time.

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