The Rattlesnake Season

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Authors: Larry D. Sweazy

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Praise for
THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON
“Very rarely . . . a novel comes along that fulfills all the expectations of the genre while rising to the level of a classic. Larry D. Sweazy’s
The Rattlesnake Season
combines the slam-bang action of a good Western with the sensitivity of style and depth of character that used to be the hallmark of literary fiction . . . Josiah Wolfe is an American original created by an American original, and the fact that this is the first title in a series catapults this debut novel into the rarefied category of a newly discovered planet.”
—Loren D. Estleman, Spur Award-winning author of
The Branch and the Scaffold
“Raw, wild, and all too human,
The Rattlesnake Season
is a thundering testament to just how good the Western novel can be. There’s a new Ranger in the town of Old West fiction, folks, and his name is Larry D. Sweazy.”
—Johnny D. Boggs, Spur Award-winning author of
Doubtful Canon
“There’s a new fresh voice in the pages of Western fiction . . . His powerful authentic voice rings steel tough . . . and after you finish his novel, your dentist may have to extract the Texas sand from behind your molars . . . A must read for the Western fan.”
—Dusty Richards, Spur Award-winning author of
The Sundown Chaser
“Larry Sweazy’s novel is a fast paced, hard to put down book, chock-full of unforgettable characters you will be glad you met. It’s what people these days like to call a page-turner.”
—Robert J. Conley, author of
Mountain Windsong
and vice president of Western Writers of America
“Larry Sweazy is a writer that does his homework and research and combining that with his story telling will have a good career.”
—Don Coldsmith, author of The Spanish Bit series
Titles by Larry D. Sweazy
Josiah Wolfe, Texas Ranger Series
THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
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(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE RATTLESNAKE SEASON
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY Berkley edition / October 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Larry D. Sweazy.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-14512-8
BERKLEY
®
Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY
®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
To Rose: For believing all along
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been possible without the help of a number of people. First and foremost, a heart-felt thanks to Ed Gorman, who asked me to write a short story a few years back with a main character who was a Texas Ranger. Even after living in Texas for nearly five years, I don’t think I would have tackled the Texas Rangers on my own. Thanks again, Ed, for lighting the way.
There is not enough room here to say thank you to all of my writer friends and family members who helped me over the years, either with a critique or an encouraging word, when I needed it the most. You know who you are.
Special thanks goes to John Duncklee for helping me with the Spanish translations. Any mistakes are my own.
I can’t thank Carolyn Morrisroe enough for taking a chance on me, and Sandra Harding and Rick Willett for seeing me through the process.
And, finally, I can’t ever thank my agent, Cherry Weiner, enough, for sticking with me, and never giving up on me or my work. That means more to me than you know.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It has been argued that there is no other American law enforcement agency as legendary as the Texas Rangers. That argument weighed heavily on my mind as I wrote this book. I have created a fictional character, and at times placed him in a fictional setting, among real people. In doing so, it is my hope that I have captured the essence of the Texas Rangers, and Texas of the 1870s. Hopefully, I have helped tilt the argument further in favor of the Rangers. I have the utmost respect for the Rangers, past and present.
For historical works concerning the Texas Rangers, the following books served me well, and might be of interest:
Lone Star Justice: The First Century of the Texas Rangers
, by Robert M. Utley (Berkley 2002);
The Texas Rangers: Wearing the Cinco Peso
,
1821-1900
, by Mike Cox (Forge 2008);
Six Years with the Texas Rangers, 1875-1881
, by James B. Gillet (Bison Books 1976); and
A Private in the Texas Rangers: A. T. Miller of Company B, Frontier Battalion
, by John Miller Morris (Texas A&M Press 2001).
PROLOGUE
July 1872
The midwife, a short, rotund Mexican woman, who went by the name of Ofelia, stood over Lily’s lifeless body and shook her head. “She is dead, señor.”
There was no blood, no struggle. Lily did not have the strength to bear a child. She had battled for days between the labor of childbirth and the onset of influenza. She lay flat on the bed, her belly protruding, beads of sweat still on her forehead. A bowl of steaming hot water sat next to the bed, and the room was filled with an odd sour odor.
Josiah Wolfe could barely breathe. He staggered to the bed, past Ofelia’s helper, a scrawny young thing with saucer-shaped brown eyes, rimmed with tears, that the midwife referred to as
niña
, girl, and never by name.
Lily’s skin was still warm to the touch.
He closed his wife’s dull eyes and kissed her forehead without fear of contracting the sickness. Life was too painful. He was willing to die that very moment himself, willing to join his wife in the land of heaven, even though he was not much of a believer. Not now. Redemption and resurrection seemed to be nothing more than a folktale. The sickness had shown no mercy, a devil that could not be fought. Where was God’s hand in all of this? Josiah had wondered more than once, especially after the preacher man from Tyler had refused to come to the house out of fear for his own health and well-being.
Josiah Wolfe had never felt so empty, or so angry, in his entire life. It seemed that death was everywhere he looked. He ran out of the house yelling, screaming, venting his rage into the darkness of the night.
A coyote answered back, mocking him.
He fell to the ground in a bundle of tears and spit, and began to pound the dirt. He didn’t know how long he was there, how long it was before someone laid a hand on his shoulder. It was only minutes, but seemed like eternity.
“The baby lives, señor, but we do not have much time.” Ofelia stood over him, staring down with the eyes of a sad mother. “I cannot reach the feet.”
Josiah caught his breath, filled his lungs, but he could not speak. Everything seemed so hopeless—even the suggestion that life somehow still existed did not, could not, touch his heart.
“I will need a butchering knife to save the baby,” Ofelia said. “Can you get it for me?”
Ofelia’s voice sounded like it was coming out of a well, even though the wind had whipped up, pelting his face with dry Texas dirt. In a stupor, he pulled himself up, staggered to the barn, and found his skinning knife. Ofelia grabbed the knife from his hand and disappeared back into the pine cabin that once held his dreams and love, but now only held the lifeless body of his one and only Lily.
By the time he returned to his marriage bed, there was blood everywhere.
The
niña
could not take the sight of Ofelia cutting open Lily’s belly—she had run from the foul-smelling room in a panic when she saw the midwife’s intent. Josiah could barely stand the sight himself. He stopped and hunkered in the corner, his eyes glazed with tears, his stomach in tatters.
Candles flickered on the table next to the bed, and Ofelia muttered under her breath as she slit Lily’s pure white skin. It took Josiah a minute to realize that the woman was praying. “
Perdoneme, Dios . . .”
Forgive me, God.
After making a long cut down the center of the stomach, Ofelia motioned for Josiah to come to her. “I will need your help, señor.”
Josiah’s knees and hands were trembling. He could not look at Lily’s lifeless face, or bring himself to speak. The words
I can’t
were stuck in his throat.
“Pronto, señor.”
Ofelia shook her head with frustration and mumbled a curse word under her breath. The knife tumbled to the floor. Josiah had never seen so much blood in his life. He wanted to scream at the Mexican woman and make her stop—but he knew she was doing the right thing. The baby deserved a chance to live. Lily would want him to fight, to do whatever was necessary to save their child.
Slowly, Josiah made his way to the side of the bed.
Ofelia took his hands gently into hers and guided them to Lily’s belly. “I am sorry, señor, this must be done to save your baby. You must pull back the skin with all your strength.”
Josiah took a deep breath, fighting back the bile that was rising from the depths of his throat.
In a swift motion, Ofelia thrust her hands deep inside Lily, tussled and turned her arms, and just as quickly, pulled a nearly lifeless baby up and out of the body. She placed the baby, all covered in blood and dark blue as a stormy summer sky, on the bed and cut the cord.
Josiah staggered back as Ofelia swatted the baby on the behind. Nothing happened. It looked dead. She swatted again. And again nothing. Finally, she blew into the baby’s mucus-covered mouth and smacked the baby on the back, just between the shoulder blades. The baby coughed and heaved, and began to cry.
“You have a son, señor. You have a son.”

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