The Rattlesnake Season (37 page)

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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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He wished it was spring instead of fall.
In spring there’d be plenty of cat squirrels bouncing around the hardwood forest close to the cabin. But all of the wishing in the world wouldn’t turn back time. There was a chill in the air, and the days of late were regularly overcast, and growing shorter. Now that the harvest of corn was in, Josiah had been obliged to return to school—which did not make him too happy.
A game trail caught his attention, and he eased along a hidden winding path that cascaded down a steep ravine.
He clung tightly to his father’s long gun and navigated his way through the towering hardwoods, a thick grove of pines, then into a floodplain that was dried up and sandy.
Silt covered the first six feet at the base of every tree along the meandering river that was at the end of the trail, remnants of the spring floods. A red-bellied woodpecker chortled three times as it lit out overhead, then it landed on a nearby tree and started to work, quickly hammering away in search of ants or other insects to eat.
Every creature on earth must be hungry, Josiah thought. He stopped and caught his breath. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, and another pang of hunger gurgled in his belly—breakfast had been a bit of grease-soaked bread.
After he had stood still for five minutes or so, a big squirrel buck jumped from one tree to another. But it was nearly a hundred yards away. Josiah raised the gun, steadied himself, and tried to balance his weight so he wouldn’t go tumbling backward once he pulled the long gun’s trigger. The light was dim under the canopy of leaves that had yet to fall, and the sky above was roiling gray, the clouds tossing and turning in a north wind that seemed to be growing stronger by the minute.
The buck was busy jumping from one tree to the next, and with each jump it was farther away from Josiah, and the certainty of a piece of meat was quickly running out of range. Josiah took a deep breath, sighted the squirrel as best he could, and pulled the trigger. The blast shattered the peaceful silence that blanketed the river bottom. The squirrel fell to the ground with a loud thud. The shot was square-on.
The discharge had propelled Josiah back a bit, but he did not fall—he knew what to expect. The smell of black powder tickled his nose, and it gave him a feeling of satisfaction and comfort. He’d have two squirrels in his bag—a couple more and he could head home and present his parents with a few days’ worth of meals. Hopefully, his father would recover quickly and they could go hunting together.
He made his way to the squirrel, unconcerned about how much noise he made. All of the creatures had now been alerted to his intention. The buck was truly the biggest squirrel he had ever seen. It had to weigh three or four pounds. It made the gray cat look like a mouse when he tossed the buck in the satchel with it.
Blood covered the fingers of his right hand, so Josiah went to the river to clean himself up. He had laid the long gun down on the ground a few feet behind him, but he clutched the satchel tightly between his arm and ribs. He could smell the squirrels, the blood, and it quelled his appetite, almost made him queasy, but he would not for a second part with the kills—some critter might grab them and run off.
Bent over, staring down at the water, washing his hands, then his face, Josiah could see the reflection of the clouds overhead—but after a second, after wiping the last bit of water from his face, he nearly quit breathing.
There was a man in the reflection, a man standing over him with his father’s long gun in his hands. Even worse, setting panic free to scream through his veins, was the realization that the man was an Indian. Josiah was almost certain it was a Comanche.
He froze until the Indian nudged him from behind with his foot. “Up,” the Indian demanded. “Up.”
Josiah did as he was told. He was trembling, and he was afraid he was going to pee himself like a little baby, but he didn’t. He turned and faced the Indian. The Indian had shoulder-length black hair, a buckskin shirt, and a breech-cloth with leggings. There were streaks of paint on his face, black curvy lines trailing from his hard eyes, and Josiah didn’t know what they meant. All he knew about was war paint. But why would a lone Indian be here in war paint? he wondered. That would mean there were more Indians. He broke out in a sweat at the thought.
The Indian motioned for Josiah’s black-powder bag, and for his cartridges, too. Josiah instinctively shook his head no, and started to back up. He stopped when he was ankle-deep in the water, not taking his eyes off the Indian. It was then that he noticed the blood running down the Indian’s thigh, noticed the gaping bullet hole, and the scowl of pain that was marbled across the man’s face.
“Give,” the Indian demanded, motioning again for the ammunition.
Josiah shook his head no again, squared his shoulders, and stood firm, but before he realized what was happening, the Indian swung his father’s long gun at him. The butt crashed into the side of his head before he could move, before he could scream. He only felt a brief burst of pain before everything went black.
Josiah slowly came to a little while later, lying on the bank of the river. A loud sound had startled him awake, his head ached with pain, and he could taste a bit of blood. It was late afternoon now—the sky grayer than it was in the morning, with a cold rain sprinkling down and a fierce wind rattling the leaf canopy overhead. It sounded like a train was running over the tops of the trees. Josiah sat up, rubbing his head, his eyes searching at every turn for the Comanche.
But he was gone . . . along with his father’s long gun and the satchel of squirrels. Josiah stood up slowly, then gathered his bearings, made sure that he was correct—that everything was gone, including the Indian.
He began to run, run as fast as he could, toward home, toward his father and his ma, as far away from the woods, and the Indian, as possible.
He could only hope the Indian was alone, and not waiting for him, not waiting to follow him home. And then, fear upon fear broke loose in Josiah Wolfe’s twelve-year-old soul, when he realized that his mother could not protect herself any better than he could, or the Parkers had, when they were overwhelmed by angry, raiding Indians.
He ran faster than he had ever run before.
CHAPTER 1
July 1874
“Ofelia, have you seen my boots?” Josiah Wolfe demanded.
Morning light bathed the porch in a warm glow from the rising sun. It was a small comfort that the house faced east, toward Tyler, toward Seerville, toward what had been, until recently, home.
Ofelia Martinez smiled, and ignored Josiah. She was sitting on a porch swing holding Josiah’s two-year-old-son, Lyle, on her lap playing pat-a-cake. “
Acariciar a una torta, acariciar a una torta, hombre del panadero
.”
Breakfast had already been cooked, eaten, and cleaned up. There was still a lingering aroma of strong coffee and bacon wafting out from inside the small house.
Lyle squealed with laughter, then said, “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man!”
“
Sí
,” Ofelia said, giving Lyle a hearty hug.
“Ofelia!”
“
¿Qué, señor?
What?”
Josiah was standing in the doorway. His face was red, an odd contrast to his cornflower blue eyes and the thick shock of straw-colored hair that stood uncombed on the top of his head. He was tall and lanky, and his head nearly bumped the top of the door when he came and went. He had to watch his head when he had a hat on or he would knock it off. One more thing to get used to in this house.
“Where are my boots?”
Ofelia broke into a healthy laugh. She was short, what some might call squat, her dark brown Mexican face was lined with wrinkles, and her hair was grizzled and unruly, gray refusing to turn white, even though it probably should have years before.
Josiah had known Ofelia since he was a boy, and she was the closest thing to family he had left in his life. She had been a midwife in East Texas almost her entire life. Mostly to Mexicans like herself, but Josiah’s father and ma didn’t carry around much prejudice—Mexicans came and went frequently on their little farm, helping out for what wages they could earn, and what wages Josiah’s family could pay.
The Wolfes never owned a slave—his father found the practice distasteful, even though he never said so outside of the confines of his own home—but that did not stop Josiah from signing up with the Texas Brigade when the War Between the States came to Texas. He was a son of Texas, and there was an expectation that he fight, like the rest of the Wolfe family had before, in the skirmishes of the land, like the Cherokee War his father fought in, and became a hero in, before Josiah was born. Josiah had been more than happy to carry on the fighting tradition when the time came.
Ofelia had been with the family during happy times and sad. She had been there after the war, when Josiah returned broken, then was saved by Lily, the girl of his dreams, giving him a family, and new hope. She had been there, too, when both Josiah’s parents died and were buried on the back forty of the Seerville farm. Most importantly, and most recently, Ofelia had been there when the fevers came and took Josiah’s three little girls, and ultimately death claimed his wife, Lily, in childbirth, leaving a newborn baby, Lyle, in the arms of a man who knew nothing about child-rearing. Ofelia had been there through it all. So when Josiah decided to move to Austin, he was more than a little relieved that Ofelia agreed to come along and watch after Lyle while he continued on Rangering. He owed her the world.
“They are on your feet, Señor Josiah.” Ofelia laughed again, so much so, her whole body shook from head to toe.
Lyle joined in, even though it was obvious that the little boy, who favored his mother, with curly dark hair and brown eyes, didn’t know why he was laughing. He looked at Josiah and Ofelia quickly, from one to the other, trying to determine, it seemed, if he was causing the laughter. Lyle was too young to know the past, or understand the present, and Josiah was intent on keeping it that way for as long as possible.
Josiah burst into laughter then, once he looked down and found his boots exactly where he had put them. “Well, that figures, doesn’t it?”
“It does, señor, it surely does.”
“My apologies, Ofelia.”
“No need,
señor
, you know that.”
“It’s just hard . . . to leave so soon.”
Ofelia nodded, wiped the tears from her eyes that had accumulated from laughing so hard, and stood up, lugging Lyle up with her. She easily handled the boy, like he was a sack of potatoes, balanced on her hip like a commodity that fit perfectly against her body.
“It will be easier to get the house in order without you underfoot. Besides, it is best to get you back where you belong . . . among the living. I will be fine here. The city has much allure, and I have some distant relatives here as well. It is not like I will be all alone, señor
.
”
“I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”
Josiah held out his hands a few inches from Lyle. The boy eagerly jumped into his father’s arms.
“We have already discussed this, señor. I will stay until it is time for me to leave. We will settle up then.”
Josiah nodded. “It’s a deal. All right. No more of that, I promise.”
“
Bueno
.”
“Good!” Lyle shouted. “Good!”
Josiah and Ofelia both broke into a hearty round of laughter again.
One thing was for sure: Lyle would be much better at speaking more than one language than Josiah was. And all things considered, since he was obviously going to be raised a city boy instead of a country boy, it was a good thing for Lyle. The world was changing faster than Josiah could keep up with.
“
Bueno
.
Bueno
,” Lyle continued as, followed by Ofelia, Josiah walked back into the house, readying himself to finally leave.
Josiah Wolfe had been in a new city more than once in his life, but it was still nearly impossible for him to conceive that his recent move to Austin was now a permanent one. He was no longer a visitor, or a Texas Ranger riding into town on business just to leave again when trouble was quelled or an arrest made.

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