The Rattlesnake Season by Larry D. Sweazy Page A

Police in some capacity, but it would have only been because the Rangers were poorly funded under Governor Davis.
    Any notion of a misdeed having occurred would depend on whose moral code that deed, or misdeed, was siphoned through, who was doing the judging. Josiah didn’t trust a man like J. T. Patterson. The sheriff seemed bitter, angry about having to let go of the ways of the past. Being an expert in that quality himself allowed Josiah to recognize with certainty the man’s character. The man craved power, and for some reason he had chosen to challenge the captain to prove his own worth.
    Whatever the cause of the dislike that existed between the two men, all Josiah could hope for at the moment was that his new Mexican friend was safe—and smarter than an Irish tracker. He scanned the horizon as quickly as he could, hoping to see a sign of Juan Carlos’s presence, a shadow that assured him the man was at a safe distance, watching . . . but he saw nothing.
    Captain Fikes stroked his chin. “You don’t need my permission to ride past my men, Sheriff. Not if you’re to be on your way.”
    “Well, that I am. I’ve wasted enough time tussling with you for one day—a year for that matter, but our business is unfinished for now. Your man could be miles away.”
    “For his sake, I hope so.”
    “Just as I thought,” Patterson said.
    Fikes nodded. “Just as you thought—you’re right this time, Patterson. But I have no criminal in my custody other than Charlie Langdon. And the sooner I am free of that low-life pearl, the better off my life will be.”
    Sheriff Patterson swung his horse around with a nod and a glare, ordered his men to follow him, then headed slowly up the trail toward the waiting Rangers.
    Fikes and Josiah held back, waiting a good minute or two before trotting slowly after the posse. “Shoot first and ask questions later if it comes to that,” the captain said, barely in a whisper.
    Josiah nodded.
    Patterson and O’Reilly split and each paired up with one of the other two men, then they all circled Charlie Langdon like a kettle of buzzards, black-winged birds swirling in the air like a mountain-sized stew pot.
    Pete Feders sat erect on his horse, unwavering and quiet, not looking to Captain Fikes for any orders. He already knew what to do. There was no question about that.
    The wind had kicked up a bit, and a few dirt devils swirled to life in the broad dry patches beyond the towering oaks, between the hills and the cemetery. Other than the sound of the wind and the steady gait of horse hooves hitting the ground, the air was quiet. Not one bird bothered to sing or shriek in warning. It was easy to guess that they were all watching, though, with a heightened fear of humans.
    Charlie Langdon snickered, then started calling the sheriff every name he could probably think of . . . trying to light a fire, trying to create an opportunity for escape.
    Josiah had seen him do it before.
    Once in Suffolk, three Union soldiers had made the mistake of capturing Charlie and not taking their captive as seriously as they should have. Before it was all said and done, each man was dead, or lay dying, from wounds inflicted by his own weapon.
    There were other times, but that was just the first one to come to Josiah’s mind. And the lesson was clear: Never leave a knife open to a man like Charlie Langdon, or it would be the last regret a man had before he died a slow, painful death.
    Luckily for all of their sakes, no one was riled by Charlie’s onslaught of insults. O’Reilly’s face reddened when he was called a Mick, but beyond that, the trick did not take.
    The posse gathered up, and the sheriff commanded them to go forward, north on the trail, away from San Antonio.
    They took off like they had set a house on fire and were afraid of getting caught.
    Captain Fikes didn’t say a word until the sheriff and his riders were out of sight. “I sure don’t understand how a damn fool like J. T. Patterson got