The Rattlesnake Season by Larry D. Sweazy Page B

himself elected as sheriff of San Antonio—and come to think it, I probably don’t want to know.” He spit a load of tobacco juice to the ground and shook his head in disgust. “We haven’t seen the last of that bunch.”
    For once, Josiah hoped the captain was wrong. But he doubted that he was.

CHAPTER 9

    The air dramatically cooled as night fell. Two jackrabbits roasted over a healthy fire. The cooking meat was a welcome smell to Josiah, overtaking the stink of trail sweat; his own, as well as the other Rangers’.
    Charlie Langdon seemed to revel in his own filth. Anyone within three feet of the criminal could tell he had not been afforded a bath since his capture . . . and he didn’t seem to mind. Josiah knew the last thing on Charlie Langdon’s mind would be the cleanliness of his own person. What mattered to Charlie Langdon more than anything else would be surviving first, and being free second. He was as patient as a heron stalking a minnow—he would wait to strike at the most appropriate moment, when there was no doubt his attack would result in the highest amount of intended success. Given the opportunity to escape, he would surely be ready.
    Josiah was surprised Charlie hadn’t tried anything before now, beyond kicking Scrap Elliot when he got down off his horse. That was just a message for the greenhorn to keep his distance—but it was a message to everyone else as well: Give Charlie Langdon as much space as possible. Josiah hoped everyone in the escort party had paid attention.
    All things considered, it had been a harder ride from San Antonio than he’d thought it would be. In a way he was glad to be riding with a group of men for once, but rarely was there a moment when it was possible for Josiah to let down his guard. Now he was tired, and glad for a moment’s rest once the camp had been set. But he continued to keep a close eye on Charlie, who sat, wrists still bound by the metal bracelets, across the fire from Josiah.
    Willis and McClure had bound the prisoner’s feet together with a strong piece of rope once they’d hoisted him off the horse and led him to his resting place for the night—every gun in the camp trained on Charlie’s egg-shaped head. One false move and he’d be full of holes, and nobody knew that better than Charlie himself. He didn’t speak a word, hadn’t since he’d been placed in front of the fire glaring at Josiah.
    Scrap Elliot had first watch, and Josiah was thankful for the quietness in the camp.
    Elliot never seemed to shut up. It was like silence scared him. Josiah figured Scrap was sitting on a boulder just at the crest of the hill they had settled on, muttering all kinds of nonsense to himself. Didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t have to hear it . . . but the kid sure was starting to grate on his nerves.
    The horses had been corralled, watered, and fed, and were resting comfortably under a spindly oak. They had left the stream several hours ago. The landscape was almost barren, quiet and lifeless now.
    Captain Fikes, Pete Feders, and Sam Willis were huddled together just off to Josiah’s left. They sat in a semicircle about ten feet from the fire, among their bedrolls, backs to everyone else, participating in a hushed conversation. Josiah didn’t know Willis very well and didn’t think too much of the threesome holding a private talk. But other concerns were on his mind.
    He hoped he would have time in between delivering Charlie and leaving for the Red River camp to spend a little time with his son, Lyle. It was something he would have to talk to the captain about. But now was not the time. Josiah had enough sense about him not to interrupt the meeting.
    Instead, his gaze shifted to Vi McClure, who was steadily tending to the rabbits.
    McClure was a big man with black shoulder-length hair that curled up over his collar. Josiah guessed the Scot to be a few years younger than himself, probably a little too young to have any wartime experience—it was hard