The Rattlesnake Season (9 page)

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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

BOOK: The Rattlesnake Season
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Scrap Elliot, who had been holding the rope on Charlie’s horse throughout the trip from San Antonio, jumped off his own horse, placing himself directly between Charlie and the captain.
Josiah watched Charlie closely, and saw his lip twitch just slightly at the left corner of his hard, pursed mouth. Josiah started to warn the captain, because he knew something was coming, but it was too late.
Charlie kicked his right foot up as hard as he could and caught Scrap Elliot just under the chin.
“Son of a bitch!” Scrap yelled as he flipped backward, nearly knocking Captain Fikes to the ground.
Charlie Langdon laughed, but stopped suddenly midway through his guffaw.
In one swift motion, Pete Feders had pulled the hammer on his Colt and stuck the barrel in Charlie’s ear. “You’d do best to shut up and be apologetic to the captain and Ranger Elliot, Mr. Langdon. I’d hate for your ride to end before you got a chance to relieve yourself.”
The smile fell from Charlie’s face like a curtain falling on a fancy theater show. “I ain’t apologizing to no one. I’ve been sitting here mindin’ my own business for miles. Seems to me this young feller wasn’t paying attention.”
Peter Feders pushed the gun harder against Charlie’s ear. “I said apologize.”
“That’ll be enough, Sergeant Feders.” The captain pulled Scrap to his feet, and the young Ranger rubbed his jaw furiously.
Josiah had jumped off Clipper, and in a matter of seconds had the Sharps carbine aimed squarely at Charlie’s head.
Willis and McClure had their guns drawn on the prisoner, as well. One false move, and Charlie Langdon would meet his maker, without the pleasure of a trial or a crowd at the hanging. He’d be riddled with enough bullet holes for plenty of daylight to shine though on a gloomy day.
There was still a twitch in Charlie’s lip that Josiah could see. No one else seemed to notice.
“I’d stand away from the coward, Scrap. And Pete, watch his hands,” Josiah said, coming up alongside the captain.
“Do as he says, Sergeant,” Fikes ordered.
There had not been any rank mentioned among the six Rangers until that moment. Josiah wasn’t surprised—the Rangers worked in a loose fashion, not as defined militarily as the Brigade—but there was definitely rank among the members.
Pete Feders carried himself like a soldier, so it came as no surprise to Josiah that he had been deemed a leader.
It did surprise him, though, that the captain had not made them all aware of the chain of command. So Josiah was glad to see the captain wasn’t offended by his observations about Charlie’s possible actions.
“Wolfe knows this man better than any of us. You’d do well to heed his advice,” the captain said.
“Josiah Wolfe doesn’t know a damn thing about me,” Charlie said.
“Do I need to strap you to a tree and whip you with a pistol, Langdon?” the captain snapped. “You don’t speak until you are spoken to. I’m not going to repeat myself again.”
Charlie Langdon drew in a deep breath and glared at Josiah. His eyes were black and cold. A look Josiah had seen more than once.
“Get him down,” Fikes said to Willis and McClure. Then he turned to Scrap. “You all right, boy?”
Scrap nodded his head yes. “Fine, Captain. I’m just fine.” He wiped a stream of blood from the corner of his mouth.
Pete Feders pulled his Colt back as Charlie slid off his horse into the confined custody of Willis and McClure. Neither man looked too happy about the prospect of leading Charlie off the trail to relieve himself, but Josiah wasn’t going to volunteer for that duty. He was going to be ready with the Sharps, and not take his eyes off Charlie Langdon for a second.
Scrap Elliot had wandered over to the stream and started rinsing out his mouth, muttering curse words under his breath.
“I’ll need you to be a sergeant as well, Wolfe, but Feders has a little more recent time by my side. He was with me when he caught up with Charlie there. He’s my first sergeant, but I need you to fall into step right behind him.”
“I understand.”
“McClure and Willis know how to do their jobs. Once we get this prisoner delivered, then move on to the Red River camp, I’m hoping the rest of the company’ll be mustered. Be plenty of room for a man with your fighting experience to advance if you so desire. I think the future is bright for the Rangers now that Governor Coke has taken office. And I can’t imagine a better man than Jones to lead us all. We’ll all be better off serving under a man like him.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Captain.” Josiah did not look the captain in the eye as was his normal manner. His gaze was fixed on Charlie and the two Rangers. They were about ten yards off the trail. A hawk screeched overhead, and a chill ran down Josiah’s spine. “I sure don’t trust him,” he added, almost in a whisper.
“Just keep your head about you. Holler if you see something we don’t. You seem to have an eye for his trickery.”
“I’ve seen Charlie Langdon kill more men than I can rightly count, Captain. And most of them didn’t see a thing coming their way until it was too late.”
Pete Feders had remained mounted on his horse. His attention was drawn behind them—something the captain and Josiah noticed right away.
The sound of horses running full-out reached their ears, a low thunder growing louder, and a plume of dust became visible on the horizon, heading directly toward them.
Charlie Langdon had noticed, too. A slow smile crossed his face, then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
CHAPTER 8
By the time the first rider became fully visible, Willis and McClure had secured Charlie Langdon back up on his horse.
All six Rangers surrounded their charge, guns at the ready.
Josiah and the captain had agreed that the coming horsemen were most likely members of a gang sent to set Charlie free. There was no way that was going to happen—not without a fight, anyway. There was not a man among them, as far as Josiah could tell, who would not lay down his life to protect the people of Texas, and save them from one more vengeful ride of a criminal who should have been jailed, or hanged, a long time ago.
Josiah wasn’t thrilled at the idea of taking a bullet because of Charlie Langdon, but he’d damn well take a bullet for Captain Hiram Fikes. The last man who’d given him a second chance, who’d shown any sign of faith or belief in Josiah like the captain had, was his father—and that was so long ago, just after his return from the war, he had nearly forgotten the simple act of encouragement. It was the day his father signed over the deed to the small farm just outside Seerville.
The approaching horses were louder now, a storm trying to gain its strength. It was surprising to Josiah that the gang would approach in such a brash manner—in broad daylight, without the aid of any cover. Though it was a tactic that seemed much in line with Charlie Langdon’s talent in planning attacks.
Scrap Elliot seemed to be the only one who was outwardly nervous about the visit from the unknown riders.
He couldn’t quite keep his horse from fidgeting back and forth like she was getting ready to run a race. The horse was a young blue roan mare Scrap called Missy, and she looked like she was about three hands too tall for the kid.
That’s what Josiah considered Scrap, a kid, and there had been moments when he wanted to ask the captain why he’d brought Elliot on as a Ranger, but he never got around to it, never really figured it was any of his business. He was just curious, because so far the only quality that Scrap Elliot exhibited was an unyielding enthusiasm for clumsiness and the trouble that always seemed to follow.
Captain Fikes was getting annoyed at Scrap, casting angry glances his way. But he didn’t say anything—he just spit tobacco juice at the ground more frequently than normal, trying to stay focused on the riders.
Scrap’s horse, Missy, continued to struggle at the bit like she had seen a rattler.
There were no snakes on the ground that Josiah could see—just a nervous owner who lacked the horsemanship to quiet his beast. The thought made Josiah uneasy about Scrap’s shooting skills. He hoped he would never have to rely on the kid to cover his back.
Charlie Langdon’s face was expressionless. He just stared off in the distance like he was biding his time. If he had smiled at first sight of the riders, he wasn’t showing his hand now.
The first rider was followed by three more men.
As they got closer, Josiah was certain he recognized the rider in the lead—he was sure it was Sheriff J. T. Patterson. Even so, he didn’t relax his finger on the Peacemaker’s trigger.
“Feders, stay here with the rest of the men. Wolfe, come with me,” the captain ordered. There was a scowl on his face that convinced Josiah he’d recognized the lead rider as J. T. Patterson, too.
Fikes spurred Fat Susie and tore away from the cool spot in the road, kicking up a cloud of dust of his own, in a huff.
Josiah followed close behind, holding the reins with one hand and balancing his carbine with the other.
The four riders did not slow as they were approached by the captain.
They had their guns drawn as well, and bandannas covering half their faces, which didn’t make too much sense to Josiah. The sheriff had most certainly figured out who they were approaching. One of the men was a black man, most of his face shielded by a red bandanna. He was a big man, and stood out from the rest, not only because of his skin color, but because of his sheer size—if Burly Smith was a boulder, this man was a mountain. Josiah was surprised Sheriff Patterson was riding with a Negro.
Finally about twenty feet away, the four men brought their horses to a stop. The captain and Josiah did the same, kicking up another round of dust as they circled the sheriff and his men. Their horses exhaled heavily. Clipper kicked at the ground with his right front leg once Josiah got him settled down.
“That’s a fine way to get shot,” Fikes said, holstering his Colt.
“Be a fine way for you to get hanged, too, Fikes.” The sheriff followed suit, putting away his weapon, pulling the loosely knotted bandanna down so he could speak. None of his men joined in—they kept their guns handy, though pointed away from the captain and Josiah.
Josiah held on to the carbine, and made sure he wasn’t threatening anyone with it. He didn’t want to be the spark that lit the fire. There was an obvious nervousness and tension in the air, and one false move could have prompted a full-blown shoot-out.
“Not going to be my day to be hanged today,” the captain said.
“Day’s not over with yet.”
“So what’s your hurry? You come up on us like you’re running a posse.”
“I told you we were going to bring in that Mexican. My man, O’Reilly here, tracked him close behind you right out of town. You harboring a criminal, Captain Fikes?”
Patterson had motioned to the man on a horse right behind him wearing a long red beard, dirty white hat, and a fringed buckskin coat that looked like it was more suited for winter than a South Texas spring day. O’Reilly wasn’t one of the deputies Josiah had seen in all the commotion in San Antonio.
Now that he looked closer, he saw that neither were the other two riders—at least, he didn’t think so. They were strangers just like O’Reilly. And neither wore a badge. Only the sheriff had a star pinned to his chest. The two men kept the bandannas on their faces even though the dust had cleared. O’Reilly pulled his ratty bandanna down and breathed heavily.
The tracker stared at Josiah and the captain with blue eyes as hard as a gun barrel, but said nothing to defend what the sheriff had said about Juan Carlos skirting the Rangers’ ride. There was not a bead of sweat to be seen on the man’s sunburned face. He had a wise look about him, like some of the other trackers Josiah had encountered over the years. There was no reason to doubt that what Sheriff Patterson had said was true . . . but Josiah
did
doubt that Juan Carlos was careless enough to lead a posse straight to Captain Fikes. At least, he hoped he could doubt Juan Carlos in that way. It made no sense to him otherwise.
O’Reilly squinted, narrowing his eyes into an even harder glare at Josiah. It was like he was trying to start something, provoke Josiah into challenging him.

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