The Rattlesnake Season (33 page)

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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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Scrap called out for Josiah as he made his way past the carriage house. Josiah was settling in on the back of Clipper, about to urge the horse to pick up speed, to break into a run toward home, but instead he pulled the reins and came to a stop. “Whoa, Clipper,” he said. “We better take care of this.”
“Where you going, Wolfe?” Scrap stood a few feet from Josiah, shielding his eyes against the bright afternoon sun.
The only remaining evidence of the morning storm was the muddy road that led out of the captain’s estate, and the puddles that dotted it that still overflowed, seeking the pull of gravity to deliver a fresh gush of water to the pond. The bench was empty.
“I’ve got business to attend to,” Josiah answered.
“Looks like you’re going to be gone for a while.”
“I’ll meet up with the rest of the company. It won’t be too long.” Josiah was a little surprised Scrap cared about his departure.
“You get orders from Feders?”
“Our new captain?” Josiah nodded. “I did.”
“He can’t fill those boots, can he?”
“I can’t rightly say. I knew Captain Fikes for a long time. Feders? Not near as long. Not my call. It was Major Jones who saw fit to promote him.”
“You don’t feel slighted?” Scrap asked.
“Why would I? I have no ambition beyond getting through the day, and seeing to the care and safety of my son. Feders will do fine. If he’s not for you, you can transfer to another company . . . or opt out of the Rangers entirely. I have the same option.”
“Then what would I do?”
“I don’t know. Not for me to say.”
Clipper shifted anxiously as Scrap stepped toward him and dropped his arm, his hand dangling within inches of his gun. “I don’t trust Feders,” Scrap whispered, after looking around to make sure they were alone.
“Why’s that?”
“He rode with the State Police before joinin’ up with the captain again.”
Josiah squinted his eyes, trying to remember if he’d known that or not. He couldn’t remember, but thought it was odd for Scrap to bring it up now. “So?”
“I don’t know. Those fellas kind of made up the law as they went, did some things that was questionable. The captain didn’t take to that too well, why he didn’t ride with them long. Told me that hisself.”
“Is there something you need to tell me? Did you see something the morning the captain was killed that you haven’t told anybody?” Josiah had lowered his voice, too, a reaction to his own deeply considered suspicions.
Scrap shook his head no. “I know what I saw. McClure fired that shot as sure as I’m standin’ here.”
“Where was Feders?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember? Was he in the camp when the shooting started?”
Scrap shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t remember seeing him till after we found him with the captain. Things are a little blurry on that account.”
“Except for McClure taking the shot?”
“Yeah, uh huh. I done told you that a hundred times.”
“All right. I’ve got to get going. But if there’s anything you need to tell me, don’t send word through Feders, wait until you see me next if you can.”
“You don’t trust him, either, do you?”
“I don’t know who to trust. All I know is that I need to get going. I’m losing daylight.”
“I want to go with you.”
“You can’t,” Josiah said. “I have to do this alone.”
Austin faded quickly behind Josiah. The Chisolm Trail was easy enough to find. A good wind had picked up the stink of cows and carried it for miles.
There were a lot of entry points onto the trail, fingers that led off ranches and other trails in between, and since spring was the time when most cattle drives started, the route was busy and noisy. A half million cattle making their way north was not out of the question during the year.
Josiah was glad that a sea of longhorns was heading north. He could ride alongside some of the cattle and the cowboys, drovers, and chuck wagons, mixing in, so he wouldn’t be a target if Charlie Langdon had set a trap for him.
He knew full well, though, that there were other dangers on the trail. Anything could start a stampede; a loud fart or a boom of thunder in the distance could set off a reaction uncontrollable by the best flankers and drag men around.
He’d be lucky to make Round Rock before dark, but he wanted to get as far away from the Fikes estate as quick as he could. He wanted nothing more than to leave his time there behind him, vanquish it from his memory. But Pearl was not going to be easy to forget . . . nor was Suzanne del Toro, or his newfound suspicion of Pete Feders.
It was difficult for Josiah to consider that Feders could very well be responsible for the captain’s death, could be the shooter himself.
It was entirely possible, and it more than made sense . . . even with the fractured information Josiah counted as viable. Feders was ambitious. But was he ambitious enough to commit murder? Or was Feders really just greedy, seeing a way into the wealth the captain held? Was Feders really in love with Pearl? Or was he using her to get her widowed mother’s purse?
Josiah didn’t know.
Scrap had told him Feders rode with the State Police.
Pearl told him that something happened between Juan Carlos and the State Police that caused him to become a shadow. Add in Patterson’s reference to the State Police, and the San Antonio sheriff’s presence, according to McClure, in the gang that fled after the captain was killed . . . and there was something valid that could be added to the whole idea. Feders had cause, a reason, and could have been the shooter who fired from behind McClure. Feders could be a cold-blooded killer . . . and Josiah had left him behind, unquestioned, chasing after Pearl’s heart.
Josiah could only shudder at the thought of what might happen to the captain’s daughter if Feders
was
the killer— and didn’t get his way, didn’t get her hand in marriage like he had asked.
The thought was almost demanding enough for him to turn back, but he couldn’t. Lyle was all that remained of his previous life, of Lily, of the life he so desperately wanted back. He couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice his son for a woman he barely knew. No matter how frightening and selfish that proposition seemed at the moment.
By the time night fell, Josiah was past the towns of Round Rock and Brushy Creek, and the large circular limestone rock that marked the most favorable crossing point. Even though it had been a little treacherous considering the spring season and the afternoon rain.
A herd of cattle was settling in a shallow valley, glad, it seemed, like Josiah, to rest after a long, hard day. He’d found the trail boss and told him of his presence upwind of the herd. He’d declined a meal, though the chili and biscuits made his stomach waken and disagree with his decision to spend the night away from the comfort of a chuck wagon, and the chatter of strangers.
He had no idea who those strangers were, and the less he exposed himself to unknowns, or put himself in a position to tell his story, the better. It was too much of a risk to hope that Charlie Langdon wouldn’t have men looking for him from Round Rock to Tyler.
That night, Josiah settled in on his bedroll, hidden between two bull-sized boulders. Like every night, he kissed his dead children good night, allowed their memory to comfort him, and promised Lyle that he would be home soon.
He did not sleep well at all, stirring at every sound, at every coyote yip and owl’s hoot.
He was wide awake as the gray dawn cut the night away. He gathered his belongings and packed his saddlebags, glad the darkness had passed without incident.
As day broke, he was well on his way toward Belton, a favorite stopping-off point for a lot of cowboys. There were plenty of merchants to restock, plenty of saloons that offered entertainment of the kind Josiah had once thought he would never partake in again, but now had.
Fat Susie had visited him in his dreams, and he’d been unable to send her packing from his head. There was more to the woman than how she lived her life every day. Regardless, Josiah was certain that he wouldn’t stop in Belton. If he did, it’d only be for a brief respite, to water Clipper, and then he’d get back on the trail.
He rode hard, his eyes constantly searching the horizon, his surroundings, for any sign of ambush, any sign of Charlie Langdon’s gang. So far, there had been no sign of any threat. But Josiah did not let down his guard, did not get comfortable with the assumption that they were not lying in wait for him. Not this time.
Belton came and went. He would avoid the toll on the Chisolm Trail to cross the suspension bridge in Waco, avoid the herds of cattle backed up to cross the Brazos River. This time of year would be dramatic, the clank and tapping of longhorns heard for miles in every direction, the stench almost unbearable. Instead of paying the toll, Josiah would slow his pace and go directly through Waco.
He was able to get lost in the crowds of Waco, a brief bit of comfort from being out in the open for so long—even though he was annoyed at being slowed—but he did not let the memory of O’Reilly putting a gun to his back in the funeral crowd stray too far from his mind.
It had been a long, hard ride, and Josiah finally gave in to his physical needs. He stopped to water Clipper, and to restore himself, grab a bit of food and fresh water. His senses were strained, as he tried to take in every sight, sound, and smell possible in Waco, trying to see Charlie Langdon or his men before they saw him. He was glad there were no uniform or badge requirements for Texas Rangers.
He escaped Waco unseen, and caught up with another herd of cattle. He stayed alongside the cattle for as long as possible, then headed on to Fort Parker, to see if there was any word waiting for him from Feders or Major Jones.
That was part of the plan to outwit Charlie and his gang.
If there were no new orders, news that Charlie Langdon had been captured, then he was to proceed forward, to home, and play out the rest of the plan to bring Charlie Langdon to justice, once and for all.
Josiah’s father had always called Fort Parker by another name, Fort Sterling. His father was not a big believer in the Parker story, the captive Cynthia who went back to live with the Indians after she was rescued. There was a lot of anger among the men who’d fought in the Indian Wars, prejudice that would not die. Josiah, however, had inherited a contrary bit of rationale from his mother and always questioned both sides of the fence, even Cynthia Parker’s right to live as she chose. It caused a lot of conflict between father and son in the early years, but they eventually came to see eye to eye on most things in life.
War changes a boy into a different kind of a man.
His father would be enraged that Quanah Parker, Cynthia’s half-breed son, had grown into such a powerful leader, Josiah’s father’s point proven right that Cynthia should have been treated like the savage she had become, and killed upon sight.
That was a disagreement that was never settled. Josiah called the fort by its popular and more known name, Fort Parker, and he was glad to see the gates standing open in welcome as he approached.
He was close to home now, the memory of his father cast aside, his hope about his son’s well-being far more important than an old battle that could not be won.
The land was beginning to transform from hard limestone outcroppings situated among grassy meadows, properly suited for grazing cattle, to the hilly, deep-ravine pine forests he knew so well. Josiah was heartened by the familiar greening landscape, glad to hear a blue jay chatter in the distance, glad to be riding Clipper on soil he understood.
At a slow, comfortable trot, looking forward to a moment’s rest before completing the last leg of his journey, he entered the fort, which was just a scattering of cabins built haphazardly, surrounded by a tall fence.
The first thing he did was check in with the post commander, a rotund man with balding silver hair, Colonel Leonard Gibbon.
Gibbon, who looked like a no-nonsense kind of commander, gave him the bad news that there was no news. Charlie Langdon had not been caught, and there was not word of Lyle’s whereabouts, no missives from Feders or Major Jones.
There had been no mail at all given to the fort commander to hold for Josiah.
He was slightly disheartened, his hope tarnished a little, but only because he was tired, because he had not slowed one bit in his effort to get home as quickly as possible. There was still a plan to follow.
Clipper had not complained on the trip from Austin to Fort Parker. The horse had not hesitated once, and had run as fast and hard as Josiah could push him. But when Josiah walked out of the commander’s cabin, he noticed that the horse was beginning to look weary. Clipper needed a fresh stall, some oats, a good scrubbing, and some serious rest. Thankfully, there was a livery across the compound, just inside the back gate.
Josiah led his horse to the livery, tied Clipper to the post next to another horse, and stood there for a minute. The other horse looked familiar, the saddle even more familiar. It was a solid black stallion, a white star on its narrow nose, with a hand-tooled Mexican saddle appointed with silver buckles and studs tightened across its back, the likes of which were rare in these parts. Josiah could only remember seeing a similar saddle once before . . . recently . . . on a horse just like this one.

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